Sunshine and Snow
by dancewithdragons
Summary: "You've got a son, I've got a daughter. We'll join our Houses." What if it was Robb and Myrcella who were to marry, rather Sansa and Joffrey? AU. (Rated T, may change to M as the story progresses)
1. Myrcella I

**Hey everyone! Quick note before you get on with the reading; Joffrey is 15, Myrcella is 14, Tommen is 10. The Starks all have two years added to their ages. (Robb: 16, Sansa: 13, Arya: 11, Bran: 10, and Rickon: 6)**

**This will also be AU in the future, so don't be disappointed when I end up not following the books completely.**  
**Thanks, and enjoy the story!**

* * *

The sun was looming over head and beating down on everything the light reached, mountain tops were sprinkled with winter snow that melted into rivers and streams, the same ones that spilled into the lakes and oceans, oceans that in turn lead to far away places where there were only sweet fruits and figs.

The North was all forests and hills, mountains and rivers. It was bitter cold and devastatingly dark only a few short hours after the sun hit midsky, but Myrcella would be damned if she didn't find it beautiful.

She rode on horseback, much to her mother's discontent, right beside her father and Uncle Renly, listening to their war stories and old memories of home in the Storm Lands as they made the slow but steady ascend from King's Landing to Winterfell, home of House Stark for thousands of years.

Oh yes, Myrcella had heard much about the Stark family from her father, "Goodly men," He told her, "The best of friends and worst of enemies." She recalled learning from the Maester of their northern looks, long of face with dark brown hair and sleet grey eyes that could pierce you like a lance.

"They don't seem very interesting." Myrcella had told the Maester once, who only laughed and patted her shoulder with his soft, old, wrinkled hand.

"Is it fair to judge a person by their House?" He asked her, light brown eyes quizzical and glimmering in the gentle candlelight of the early morning.

She had shaken her head then, gold curls swaying.

Now that they were only a short few hours ride from the place that housed her father, King Robert Baratheon's, eldest friend, she couldn't help but wonder if they were as mean and as cold as their country. _A princess should not think that way_. Myrcella mused at the thought of that. She stopped caring what a princess thought long ago.

Myrcella's mother, Queen Cersei Baratheon, had implanted into her mind long before she was even five namedays what a princess should act like, speak like, even how a princess should _walk_ like. And, being how young and eager to please as she was, Cella found that she was easily molded into the image of an ideal Princess of the Seven Kingdoms.

As time went on though, she began to realize her mother's grasp on her, how uncomfortable her icy touch and intimidating eyes were, and rebelled in the only way she knew how- by spending time with her father.

"Glad you're with me, girl. About time I got some damn attention from one of my children." Robert had told her when she first mounted her mare and they set off to Winterfell.

Myrcella smiled fondly at the memory, realizing she'd been riding at her father's side the whole month's journey and they never once got sick of one another. Joffrey, on the other hand, was one that Myrcella got sick of.

Though Joffrey was a year her senior and Heir to the Seven Kingdoms, sometimes she wanted nothing more than to clobber the little monster until his nose bled, but always shoved those thoughts away. _He's still blood. My blood._

"You're quiet Princess. Are you alright?"

Myrcella took a moment to register the words as she was pulled from her thoughts and back into the present, riding sandwiched between Robert and Renly Baratheon. She looked to her right, where her Uncle was, and smiled. "I'm fine, Uncle." She assured him, rubbing her mare's neck softly as she whinnied.

Her mare, a slim, willowy creature with fine long legs and a sleek white coloring that looked almost like snow, was that of the Tyrell house- a gift from her Uncle Renly on her thirteenth nameday. Pansy, she was called, respectively for her prancing, happy nature.

Renly patted her shoulder firmly and gave her a dashingly warm grin. "Enjoying the scenery? I've quite liked it so far, myself."

"I am, indeed. It's _beautiful_ in the North." Only thrice in her memorable life had Myrcella traveled from King's Landing- once to visit her grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister in her mother's homeland of Casterly Rock. It was a beautiful place, Myrcella had to admit, with a breathtaking ocean view and the most luxurious lifestyle, but it was too hot and far too full of her mother for her to enjoy. The second time she had gone from the Landing was when Renly had taken her to Storms End, where she had a warm welcome to shield the cold from her bones as it wrapped around her and seeped through her fur cloak. The only other time, aside from the journeys to the Rock, and Storms End, in which the princess had ever ventured from home, was when she, Tommen, and Renly all toured to The Reach, where the Tyrell House gave her an ever-sweet barrage of greetings at the front steps of Highgarden. It smelled miraculously like roses constantly, strong and subtle at the same time, with the four famous roses, Garlan, Willas, Loras, and the sweet Lady Margaery, a constant presence that Myrcella didn't ever seem to mind.

None of those places though, however splendid and wonderful in their own way, were like the North, where flowers sprouted all around the forest floor and by the banks of rivers and ponds. Where the sun was constant but never badgering, for the cold of the mountains kept them cool, and where the birds chirped and sang with nothing to disturb them- hardly any populous around beside the once-a-week-or-so-it-seemed inns that would pop up from nowhere, no brothels, or at least none she could hear or see, but yet there was still an ever present feeling that this was just as lively and brilliant as the capitol. What it lacked in buildings and people, it made up for in beauty and wildlife.

"Father, why is it that you've never taken us North before? Surely you would like to see your dear Lord Eddard more often than once every nine years."

Her question didn't seem to catch the king off guard and he simply shrugged. He must have been used to her spontaneous curiosities by then. "Your mother's been frigid about it. Says it's too cold or too hot to travel- some silly woman's excuse she always comes up with."

Myrcella furrowed her brows. "We could have left her in the capitol with Joffrey and Tommen then. I'd rather be with just you and Uncle Renly anyways. And Ser Arys. I'd simply die without his company."

Arys Oakheart was probably one of her only friends since three months passed her two-and-tenth nameday, when he was appointed to her by her father the King. He kept her secrets, shared stories with her, laughed with her. He was undoubtedly her most dear companion- aside from Renly that was. Her uncle would always be her favorite.

"Can't very well leave your mother alone there, can we sweet girl? She'll flip the way the Kingdoms are run within the three months we'd be gone." Renly was grinning, though Robert looked more serious.

"Three whole months." Her father sighed and pulled out a flask, raising a brow when Myrcella went to snatch it from him.

"You fell from your horse because you drank so much last week." She reminded him with steel in her voice. She loved her father immensely, but he was a drunk, there was no questioning that, and what a mean old drunk he was- always speaking ill of, admittedly her least favorite parent and companion but still her mother, Cersei. While Myrcella wasn't on the best terms with her mother as of late, that did not change the fact that she was still the woman who labored five long hours to bring her into the world, who cared for her and would brush her long golden hair out after a day of lessons. That was the mother the princess remembered as her father would shove his face into a serving wenches bosoms, or talked badly of her, the mother she still loved and always would in a fashion.

Robert thwarted her hand away lightly, rasping "Calm yourself, girl, it's only water." Before pulling the flask open with his teeth and guzzling down the water, clear liquid running from the corner of his lips to the hidden realms of what lay underneath his cloak.

Myrcella rolled her eyes and Robert laid a hot, worn riding glove on the high of her back. "Look just like your mother when you do that, girl. Just like her."

"Thank you father," She replied, smiling. Cersei Baratheon's beauty was famed throughout the Realm, or rather, the Lannister beauty. All Lannisters were beautiful- even the half ones, she supposed.

* * *

They cantered passed a long, narrow pond that was covered by algae and water lilies as white and crisp as the clouds that rolled above them. Frogs croaked and for a moment everything was completely and utterly peaceful- until Joffrey ruined it all.

"How _dare_ you? I am the _Prince,_ I am your _elder_!" He cried, his boyish voice squeaking pitchily. "I'll be your _King_ one day, and you dare _defy_ me?"

Myrcella wheeled Pansy around and raised a golden brow at her elder brother, who was whining like a boy younger than Tommen, who was standing in Joffrey's shadow, cowering with a writhing fear. "Joffrey," She called, trotting to them and sliding from her saddle to pull Tommen, sweet pudgy Tommen, onto her hip. "Haven't I told you a thousand times already not to bother or sweet brother?"

Joffrey's shallow green eyes narrowed and the ugliest of frowns curled on his lips. "I'm _older_ than you, you _stupid_ girl. Get him out of my sight!"

She flexed the fingers on her free hand into a fist, over and over, until she blinked and inhaled, trying to keep composed. She set Tommen down and knelt at his side, "Tommen, sweet boy, what happened?"

"The little brat is a traito-"

"_Enough_." Her voice was as cold and frigid as the northern ice they rode by each day. "Joffrey, you may be my elder by a year's time, but I am _far_ stronger and more skilled than you. Should you like to be outmatched in a battle of steel or _wit_, you may speak to me, but if not I suggest you go. _Now_."

Myrcella watched with intense eyes as her brother, in a blur of fury, strode off as limped as a lame horse and screamed for their mother to comfort him- and, with no avail, Cersei indulged in his anger, kissing his brow and holding him like a babe.

She looked down from him only when she felt a tugging on her skirt and smiled to Tommen. "Yes, sweet boy?"

He blushed at the nickname, he always had. Sweet boy, she called him, since the day he was born. He was always so happy, giggling and loving, and cats flocked to him as though they sensed his gentle nature. "Thanks Cella." Tommen smiled to her and then ran off back to the litter and into the arms of his waiting mother, who had been abandoned by her favored child as he stormed off to find the Hound for whatever reason.

She clicked her tongue and Pansy came trotting, bobbing her head and whinnying, as though she were thanking Myrcella too. "Silly horse." She murmured as she climbed aback the tall, lean creature she loved so much, and rubbed its neck.

"Seems like the little prince would have been whipped by your brother had you not saved him." Ser Arys commented, molasses brown eyes bubbling with amusement.

Myrcella shrugged as they pulled up behind Renly and Robert, who gave her a look of approval each before turning back to their conversation. "What are they talking about so secretively?" She whispered to Arys, who shook his head.

"I haven't a clue. I was watching you, my princess, as I'm supposed to."

"But you must have some sort of an idea? They've been like that every moment that I've not been around them. Is it a secret?"

"Your father will tell you when the time comes."

"So it is a secret- and you know about it! Come now, Arys, can't you spare me the worry?" She pouted her bottom lip in the way that always got her what she wanted.

Arys was adamant, though. "It's not my place to tell, my princess." My princess. Myrcella, if she wasn't so frustratingly curious, would be laughing at the petname he called her- as if he was saying her name for true, Ser Arys Oakheart had called her 'my princess' since the day he was assigned to her and probably long before, and the name always made her laugh.

"Your princess?" She asked him one warm summer evening as they sat in her solar and watched the sun fade away into the horizon- sky ablaze with red and pink and yellow.

Arys smiled and ruffled her hair. "Aye, my princess. The only princess in my world."

Myrcella recalled him leaving out the Dornish princesses as he later proclaimed her the only princess in _the_ world, and laughed at the memory. Such a soft man Arys was, always courteous and ever kind- even to Joffrey, who only seemed to spit on him or hiss at him commands, at which Arys would respond, "I serve your princess sister, young prince, and am only to do as she bids." Joffrey didn't like that, and complained to Father constantly until eventually Robert was bored of it and ordered the Hound to be Joffrey's own guard.

The Hound had never truly frightened Myrcella, as Joffrey hoped he would when he paraded the man around her- rather, his burns intrigued her. He looked rough and angry and mean, but the bitterness was only a single layer of him, a cloak, per say, to shield out the unwanted. Cella knew Sandor Clegane wasn't truly evil, as they said. His brother, though, Gregor Clegane, _he_ was evil.

"My princess?"

Myrcella was pulled out of her thoughts for the second time that day, and raised a golden brow, indicating for Arys to go on, rubbing Pansy's neck.

Arys smiled, "Look, my princess, Winterfell."

And so she looked, taking in all of its northern magnificence. It was wood and stone and smoke from raging fires, and something allured Myrcella to it. Maybe it was the earnest cold that bubbled throughout the tree-surrounded land, or maybe it was the fact that her mother would hate it, Cella didn't know, but as Pansy took step after step closer, the princess could feel a sweeping feat of the change that hung ominously in the air. _The change_, Myrcella decided as she spurred into her mare's sides to gallop faster, the change is what was drawing her in.

"Slow down, girl!" She heard her father holler, Renly laughing as much of a storm as his Baratheon heritage would allow.

Myrcella didn't slow down, though. In fact, she sped up, a determined grin on her face. She thought that Pansy would either drop dead from the furious pace or begin to fly, and she didn't know if she cared either way, not ever wanting to stop.

Joffrey was trotting behind her, sniveling about wanting to be the first to enter the city, but the princess cared about that even less than she cared about if her horse flew or not, as she swept into the gates of Winterfell, regrettably yanking the reins until Pansy came to a full stop.

* * *

She heard gasps and even giggles as she spurred her horse around, patting its heaving sides. "Princess," Came a warm voice, and Cella's vivid green eyes shot to the welcoming crowd.

There were at least thirty people there, among them were common people and the family she'd been so curious about since she stepped foot out of King's Landing a full moon's turn ago. There stood a tall man, long brown hair pulled back halfway down. He had grey eyes and an oblong face, and Myrcella immediately identified him as a Stark, "Lord Stark," She smiled, putting the name to the new face before her. "So good to finally meet you. You're all my father talks about."

She dismounted, taking in the sight of his wife beside him before she hugged the man that was her father's best and probably only true friend. _Catelyn Tully_, she noted, smiling and hugging her, too. Catelyn was pretty, even in her age, with long locks of ruby and eyes as blue as the water of the Sapphire Isles. "Lady Stark, wonderful to meet you."

"And you." Replied the woman, who returned the smile warmly.

The sounds of hooves entering the gates tugged at the princess's attention, and she fought back the urge to roll her eyes as her brother, the crowned prince in all his whining glory, rode in, sitting tall in his Lannister apparel of ruby and gold. It was a surprise that her father ever stuck up for him, she thought darkly, tugging her thick cloak around her tighter and pressing down her skirt of Baratheon yellow, quickly admiring the stitch-work of the stags that were embroidering the hem of the gown before looking back up.

The Hound came after her brother, then some guards, her Uncle Jaime Lannister among them, and finally her father, and Renly, who trotted to her side and slid off his steed, smiling knowingly. "Were you truly so excited as to leave your family behind, sweet girl?"

Myrcella would have retorted, but she caught sight of her mother's carriage, sighing at the ornate appeal. It was oiled oak, double decked with gold trimming, gilded metal, ruby paint and cushioned pillows- not to mention the forty horses that pulled it along. She always wondered, if the carriage had forty horses, why it took them a month to make it to Winterfell. She settled for reminding herself of her mother's insolent fear of riding too fast.

"_Ned!_" She heard her father call out happily as he vaulted off his black warhorse. "Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours. You haven't changed at all."

Eddard Stark- who wasn't nearly as cold as Myrcella had once thought- looked her father up and down, as if to think that Robert had changed immensely. She'd known her father had once been lean and strong and fierce, but she'd only seen him as a large, fat bear-like man, who kissed her cheeks and danced with her always. "Your Grace," Eddard said, "Winterfell is yours."

Myrcella observed the Stark children as her mother, the Queen, went to the grey-eyed man, who knelt to the ground to kiss her ring, and her father embraced the Lady Stark.

There were five of them, she noticed. Three boys and two girls, who looked to be secretly bickering. One of the girls looked so much like her father that the princess raised both of her golden brows in shock. The other looked the picture of her mother. _How queer_, she thought musingly, _that they come out so opposite_. Her green eyes moved to the boy beside the Stark-colored girl. He had the Tully looks with auburn hair that curled around his face and big blue eyes. She fought for their names in her mind vigorously- Arys had told them to her many a time. Arya, she dubbed the Tully looking one, and Sansa the Stark one. She thought the boy to be named Rickon. _No, no, no_. She switched the girl's names in her mind. Arya was the younger girl, the Stark one, and Sansa was the elder, Tully looking one. Rickon didn't seem like the right name for the boy, either. _Robb or Brandon_, she recalled. He's either _Robb or Brandon_.

She didn't think much on it, thinking Brandon seemed fit for him, and her gaze roamed, falling on who seemed to be the eldest Stark child. He was clearly older than Myrcella herself, at a height with his father. He had the Tully looks too- all but the youngest girl did, she mused- and his piercing blue eyes were already on her. _Oh_.

His stare rooted her feet to the ground and she blinked. He had a handsome face, chiseled with slight ruby stubble sprouting on his jaw line. She snapped out of her trance when her father's voice bellowed again, eyes shooting to where he stood. "Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects."

Myrcella knew about his betrothal to Lyanna Stark- before his marriage to her mother- and forced the frown on her lips to return to neutrality. He only married her mother because of Lyanna's death. He didn't love her mother. Lyanna Stark was the reason he didn't love her mother, the reason her mother turned cold and spiteful.

"We've been riding since dawn, my love. Everyone's tired and cold, surely we should refresh ourselves first. The dead will wait." Cersei's voice carried through the now silent crowd, and the look of hatred her father shot her mother made Myrcella want to cry- but she was strong. She was a Baratheon. _Ours is the fury, not the tears_.

Nobody said a word. The princess's Uncle Jaime wrapped his fingers around her mother's arm and her King father went off with Lord Stark.

"Your Grace," Came Catelyn Tully's- _Stark_, she reminded herself- voice, trying to slice apart the growing tension in the air. "May I introduce my children; Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon." She'd gestured with her arm to each child as she said their names, and Myrcella smiled to them, thought it was a smile for herself, for remembering their names. _All but Robb and Rickon's_.

Her mother smiled. It was a cold smile, but a smile none the less. "They're lovely." After living nearly her whole life at her mother's side, she could see through her thin lie in an instant. "And mine; my eldest son, Joffrey," She gently caressed his golden hair and he smiled wormily. "My youngest son, Tommen," He grinned toothily and looked up to his mother, waiting for the same touch of affection but never receiving it as she gestured to Myrcella. "And I'm sure you've already met my daughter, Myrcella."

The Starks all bowed, and Myrcella's eyes were once again caught on a certain pair of Tully blue ones. "If would you follow me, Your Grace, we've already set up your rooms." Said Catelyn, who ushered the royal family into the castle.

* * *

Myrcella stood, sandwiched between Renly and Arys, as Tommen and Joffrey observed the castle with their mother, whose passive green eyes matched how bored she looked- but Myrcella couldn't help but be interested in the stone walls and the pure _heat_ that embodied the inside of the castle. It wasn't so hot as the south, but it was still welcomed, and the princess untied her cloak to relish in the warmth further.

"Let me, Your Highness." Came a soft, masculine voice, and Myrcella turned to see the Lord Robb looking at her, arm stretched with his palm out to accept the cloak. She smiled and complied, letting it slip into his hand.

"I pray you take care of that cloak, it was a gift from my father." She jested lightly, noting his slight blush.

Robb recoiled his arm, holding the cloak closer to him. He wasn't at all affected by the weight of it, though Myrcella was sure it was heavy. She'd worn it constantly for nearly a month. But he looked strong, so she didn't doubt that it felt feather-light to him. "Welcome to Winterfell, Your Highness. I hope you find our home to your liking."

Myrcella nodded, eying the fixtures around her with a casual stare. "It's lovely. " She observed a window for a moment, tracing the edges with her finger before continuing. "Thank you for accepting us on such short notice. I know it must have been stressful preparing the keep, but you did marvelously." She directed that comment to Catelyn, who smiled and nodded.

"It was no trouble, Your Highness."

Myrcella bobbed her head once and rolled her neck, Arys resting a hand on her shoulder. "Shall we find your chambers now, my princess?"

"You must be tired." Renly agreed, nudging her lightly and looking down on her with laughing eyes that switched to Robb. "Would you be so kind as to send a maid to escort us?"

Robb opened his mouth, but his sister, the Tully one, intervened. "I'll escort you, Your Highness." She insisted, smiling prettily. _Yes, what a pretty thing_, Myrcella observed with a raised brow. She indeed looked a great deal like her mother, prettier even, with a slightly longer face than a Tully would have, and slim, elegant features to match her slim, elegant limbs- fiery hair ablaze all around her with two braids pulled back atop her head. "It would be an honor, truly."

"I would like that very much, Lady Sansa." The princess replied, smiling back. She turned again to Robb and said, "Thank you for the warm welcome." Before hugging Arys and Renly goodbye- for now.

"How was your journey, Your Highness?" Sansa chirped happily, bubbling with zeal that the princess had accepted her offer. "I trust the snow did not trouble you?"

Myrcella shook her head. "The snow was wonderful, actually. It was the first time I'd ever seen it, you see, but I did enjoy it very much." She tucked fallen gold hair behind her ear and sighed. "The journey was long, and slow, but we made it here. Pansy's back is more comfortable than the wheelhouse anyhow."

"Did you truly ride aback a horse the whole way, Your Highness?"

"I did. And just Myrcella is fine, please. Or Lady Myrcella if you must. I'm not so fond of titles." _I'm like my father in that aspect at least_, she thought greyly, wishing she'd taken his hair or his eyes. Anything to be less Lannister. Not that she hated her Lannister family, really. She loved her Uncles Tyrion and Jaime- they were wonderfully witty and kind, always kind. Even her grandfather Tywin was goodly to her, in his own way, but she was a Baratheon. She only wished to look the part.

Sansa nodded quickly, "Of course," She said slowly, as if not understanding why Myrcella didn't want to be noted as a higher station than just a Lady, but still, she complied. "Your room is here… Myrcella. My family is at your service, please, don't hesitate to ask if you should need help with anything."

"Why don't you come sit with me, Sansa? I'd so like some company." Myrcella opened the door to her room, immediately being sucked into the heat of both the naturally hot walls and the blazing fire that came from the brazier. "After being in the saddle for a month, surrounded by men, it would be refreshing to have a woman's company."

Sansa blushed deeply at being called a woman, but bobbed her head up and down, stepping into the room after Cella. It wasn't an offensive room; in fact, the princess quite liked the way that the room was comfortable and lightly furnished- it felt open and free. "I hope you like the room, my lady. We've heard you liked more space and less furniture."

Myrcella nodded. "Whoever said that knows me well, it seems. I'm rather fond of open space." She sat on the bed, sinking in to it slightly. "It's so much calmer than King's Landing, here."

"But the capitol is surely lovely, my lady, is it not? I'd love to travel there one day, just to see it." Sansa was aglow, blue eyes sparkling as she daydreamed of what it would be like to see the place where the princess grew up.

Cella, on the other hand, wrinkled her nose. "The Red Keep is fine, the rest… Not so much. It's crowded and dirty, and the air is so thick compared to this northern air." She took in a deep breath, enjoying how easily it filled her lungs, even through the humidity of her bedchamber. When her eyes fell on Sansa again, the girl looked unphased.

"I heard that it's full of hidden gardens and knights and _oh_, what a life to live there!" Sansa was grinning, looking out the window from where she sat on the sill now, pale hands folded in her lap so lady-like that Myrcella wondered how she would become friends with her. She acted, talked, and daydreamed just like the princess Cersei wanted. Sansa Stark was what Myrcella Baratheon rebelled against.

The sound of her handmaid coming in with a slew of guards that held her trunks- dresses upon dresses with all the ribbons and jewelry she had in her bedchamber at the capitol, by Cersei's command- saved her from an awkward response to Sansa. "I was wondering when I would see you again, Malorie." She grinned, sliding from her seat on the four-post featherbed and embracing the maid.

Malorie was a bastard from the Reach, Malorie Flowers, who had brown curls and light honey eyes. There were rumors that she was a bastard of Mace Tyrell, but any who had met him- and Myrcella had- would know how utterly devoted he was to his wife Alerie Hightower- now a Tyrell for over twenty years.

"I'm never far behind, Your Highness." Malorie said with a soft smile, looking to Sansa. "I apologize, I did not know you had a guest."

Sansa shook her head. "I was just about to leave, really. I do hope to see you at the feast, though, Your Highness." So it was back to courtesies again? Myrcella gave her a slight smile and nodded once.

"I wouldn't miss it. Save a dance for me, lady Sansa." She replied, fighting a laugh when the Tully-colored girl blushed as red as the coals in her brazier and nodded, leaving.

As soon as Sansa and the guards had left, Myrcella closed the door, looking to Malorie. They both burst into a fit of laughter, clutching their stomachs. "_Your Highness_?" Myrcella giggled.

"Ha! What about _lady_ Sansa? When did you become such a proper princess?" Malorie was becoming red from chuckling and calmed herself, laughing lightly again before sighing. "Finally a decent place to rest our heads, huh? It's been either cots or a crowded inn for the past month!"

Myrcella rolled her eyes. "Had my mother any sense, she would have pushed those forty draft horses of hers faster than a trot. We could have made it here in two weeks time."

"So, there's to be a feast, is there?" Malorie raised a thin brown brow and Myrcella nodded, folding her arms and looking around at the impossibly wide variety of gowns. Her handmaid was about to reach for a ruby and gold gown, one that would please her mother, the Queen, but Myrcella shook her head, long gold curls swaying.

"This one." She murmured, lifting up a delicate gown of a southron style, whimsical and flowing. It was a gift from Renly only months ago, when he returned from his latest trip to Highgarden. The gown was a slightly off-Tyrell-green that perfectly matched her eyes and was embroidered with gold filigree stitching. A contradiction to that of her mother's House and her father's- tonight she would favor no House. Tonight, she would favor dancing.

Malorie grinned at her choice, understanding why, and began unlacing the Baratheon colored gown with stags that she'd worn for the arrival of Winterfell. It was a pretty gown, but not enough so for a feast- not to mention it was beginning to stain from the riding she'd been doing, mud freckling the bottom from what Pansy kicked up from the earth.

They got her dressed quickly, and Malorie went to work on the princess's hair soon after. "Leave it down. It's easier to dance without having to worry about the pins in my hair falling out."

Her handmaid nodded and pulled back only the front pieces, braiding them around her head like a veil of sorts, tying them off with gold metal bands- she braided two more veil-like pieces on each side, meeting them together and locking them in place with the metal bands.

"Your mother's not going to like this," Malorie smirked mischievously as she tossed Myrcella a pair of gold and black slippers to match her dress, subtly hinting her Baratheon heritage. _Ours is the fury_.

She rolled her eyes. "I stopped wearing Lannister colors when I turned ten. I'm sure she won't be so surprised." The slippers glided on her feet easily and she sighed as their padded luxuriousness cradled the balls of her feet, and even each toe, like a cloud, and before she knew it, it was time for the feast.


	2. Robb I

**Thanks all, for the follows, favorites, and reviews! I've enjoyed watching them pop up like daisies.**

**There are elements of both the books and show in this fic.**

* * *

It was intriguingly warm that day, as if the gods had send forth the last gusts of summer wind they had under their belt, almost like Winterfell was given one final day of heat before the cold chills were sent in.

There was a change in the air that day, ominous and exciting, making the atmosphere almost thick, matching the heavyset breezes that caressed the tall oak trees and made them dance, leafs trickling to the ground like water. The water itself, what little springs and ponds and streams were surrounding Winterfell, seemed to have taken all the calm that the castle misplaced for the day, as scullery maids and kitchen help and even the Starks themselves ran around to prepare the keep.

The King was coming that day, or so Jory Cassel's man had reported, and Winterfell was a buzz of chatter and commands. "The chandeliers are too low!" One would holler, "We need more lavender oil in the Queen's chamber!" Another would cry. There was stress in the air, and a sort of bone-shuddering readiness for whatever was to come with the arrival of the royals.

Birds flew in a strew of blacks and browns and whites, chirping and cawing and singing their lovely summer songs, all for the last time before Winter's teeth came crashing down on the populous below, biting and clawing and scratching away like an animal. _Winter is coming_, Robb thought to himself, from where he stood in the courtyard, observing all around him.

He'd been up since dawn, at his mother's request, overseeing the keep and arrangement of the random bookshelf or table, or rather, anything his mother, Catelyn Stark, didn't have time for.

"Why can't father do this?" Robb had asked that morning, as he pulled his finest black boots and cloak on, of which his mother had chosen.

Catelyn gave her son a soft smile and rested a hand on his shoulder, her blue eyes- his blue eyes- slightly distant. "When you're the Lord of Winterfell, and a king comes to visit you, you'll realize there are more important things to do than oversee your keep. Go on Robb, they'll be here soon."

_Soon_, Robb huffed. He'd been 'overseeing' the castle for hours now, since early morning to now, midday, and he'd never been more tempted to call for Theon or Jon from their sword practice to help him, but this was his duty. His honor. He wouldn't let the opportunity to prove himself go to waste.

A yip came from somewhere around his feet, and Robb looked down, smiling. "Come along, Grey Wind." He murmured, scratching the direwolf between the ears. "Time to see what mother's up to."

They'd been riding past the creek when they happened upon the deer, antler torn off and blood turning the crisp white snow as red as his Tully hair. At the time, they'd thought naught of it, until they reached what had killed it beyond the bridge, anyway.

"_Gods_!" Theon gasped, breathless from the view of the creature that lay only feet in front of them.

Curiosity and eagerness to show how brave he was to his father told Robb to go to the beast, and so he did. It was a direwolf, a bitch, with five pups suckling away at its teats.

"Robb, get away from it!" Jory had warned, sword drawn.

Robb only laughed, cuddling the pup he'd picked up to his chest carefully, only looking up after it made itself comfortable in his grasp. "She can't hurt you. She's dead, Jory."

"What in the seven hells is it?" Theon asked, bright eyes wide with the same curiosity Robb's were.

"A wolf." Confirmed the eldest Stark child.

"A freak," His father's ward jested, "Look at the _size_ of it!"

Jon's voice was a calm that the others were not. "It's not freak, that's a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind."

Theon's dark brows knit together. "There's not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years."

"I see one now," was Jon's steady reply.

Robb watched his younger brother intently, the conversation between his bastard brother and father's ward in the back of his mind as Bran approached the bundle in his arms, which wiggled at the presence of another human. "Go on, you can touch him." He told his brother in a more hushed tone.

Bran only stroked the wolf once before he turned to Jon and another pup was thrust into his arms. "Here you go." Said Jon. "There are five of them." He calculated.

"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," Hullen muttered, "I like it not."

Jory was white-knuckled clutching the hilt of his blade. "It's a sign."

Robb's father, Eddard Stark, moved cautiously around the beast. "This is a dead animal, Jory." He sighed. "Do we know that killed her?"

"There's something in the throat." Robb informed him quickly, swelling with pride of his observation. "There, just under the jaw." The elder men talked about the pups being no luck, but Robb didn't hear them as the wolf he held suckled at his gloved finger innocently.

"No matter, they'll be dead soon enough." Hullen refused to take solace that they were still only pups, pups that probably had to rip their way from their mother's stomach lest they die in there.

Theon nodded, drawing his sword. "The sooner the better." His blue-grey eyes flickered to Bran and he reached for the pup he held so closely. "Give it here, Bran."

"_No_! This one's mine." Bran nearly growled with the intensity of the wolf he held. Should it have been grown, anyways.

"Put away your sword, Theon. We will keep these pups." Robb hissed through his teeth, jaw clenched tight.

Harwin, Hullen's son, raised a brow at Robb. "You cannot do that, boy."

Hulled nodded to his son. "It's a mercy to kill them."

"_No_!" Bran cried again, taking a step back, holding his pup closer.

Robb's eyes felt ablaze as he looked defiantly to the group. "Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week. It was a small litter, only two live pups. She'll have milk enough."

"She'll rip them apart when they try to nurse."

"Lord Stark," Jon rushed. "There are five pups, three male, two female."

"What of it Jon?"

Jon looked down at the pups before his steel grey eyes met their father's again, set. "You have five trueborn children, three sons, two daughters." He said. "The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."

It almost pained Robb how formal his brother was with their father. Though a bastard, Jon was still his blood. The group behind them, Hullen, Harwin, and Jory, all exchanged glances, and Father's expression changed. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" He asked softly.

Jon shrugged. "The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark. I am no Stark, Father."

Father regarded Jon thoughtfully, and Robb thought he saw a smile grace his lips, a rare and sullen smile. Robb decided it was time to speak again. "I will nurse him myself, Father." He promised. "I will soak a towel with warm milk and give him suck from that."

"Me too!" Bran giddily agreed.

"Easy to say, harder to do." Father sighed, weighing his sons carefully with his eyes, as well as his decisions. "I will not have you wasting the servant's time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?"

Bran nodded eagerly, and Robb nodded as well, his pup nuzzling against his chest.

"You must train them yourselves as well," their father said. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And gods help if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats or slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, Father." Bran bobbed his head so excited that Robb thought it might fall off.

"Yes." Robb agreed.

"The pups may die anyway, despite all you do."

Robb was fierce then. "They won't die. I won't _let_ them die."

"Keep them then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It's time we were back to Winterfell."

Robb regarded the memory of that day with a warm smile playing at the corners of his mouth, fingers interlaced in Grey Wind's fur, who grew tremendously in the few weeks that it had been since he'd found it as little more than a week old.

An intense brush of air smacked in his face as Robb entered the Great Hall with Grey Wind at his side, yipping and wagging his thick, bushy tail. It was hot in the keep, hotter than usual, what with the constant barrage of people to maintain the temperature.

He'd found his mother easily, picked her out from the crowd. She stood in the middle of the hall, adorned in Tully blue, red hair billowing to the small of her back. "We'll need plenty of candles for Lord Tyrion's chamber. I'm told he reads all night." She told Maester Luwin.

The Maester raised a brow. "I'm told he drinks all night."

Mother's red brows knit together. "How much could he possibly drink, a man of his... stature?"

"We've brought up eight barrels of ale from the cellar. Perhaps we'll find out."

"In any case, candles." She looked up as the Maester nodded, writing the request on a very filled slip of paper. "Ah, Robb! Glad you came. Come along, we must line up in the courtyard now. The King is here."

* * *

The courtyard was silent. Robb stood to the right of his lord father, Eddard Stark, his mother to Ned's left with Rickon at hers. Sansa was standing beside Robb, seeming a mix of bored and anxious, and Bran was to her right.

"Where's Arya?" Mother questioned Father quietly, brows raised. "Sansa," She leaned over to view her daughter; who was a spitting image of herself. "Where's your sister?"

Sansa shrugged, looking away with dull blue eyes, red hair tumbling down her shoulder coolly, their mother huffing, clearly annoyed at her daughter's insolence. Sansa acted as if she had something better to do than meet the King, Queen, and their children. Suddenly, the sound of panting broke the silence, and the glint of a helmet came zipping by.

Father caught Arya by the arm, kneeling down. "Where'd you get this?" He asked, tapping the helm, but she only shrugged as he took it off.

"_Oh._" She groaned, annoyed. She looked like a real little girl today, with her unruly thin brown hair braided and twisted into a very northern bun, two plaited strands falling at either side of her shoulders, a- was that a dress under her thick grey cloak? Robb couldn't help but snicker as she shoved between her brother and sister, Bran and Sansa, hissing a, "_Move_!" To Bran.

It wasn't a moment too soon, that Arya settled into place, for the first horse came bolting in through the gates. Robb thought it was a guard at first, or perhaps a cousin of Jory's that was sent out with him to greet and take back the royals, but then a cascade of long golden curls fell from the confines of a southern styled braid and a pair of lucid emerald eyes quickly took to scanning the crowd. His father's greeting only struck his thoughts into depth.

"Princess." His father greeted warmly, nodding to her.

Robb's mind was working double, trying desperately to remember the name to put to the face. "Lord Stark," Came an innocent, light voice. He raised his Tully red brows. "So good to finally meet you. You're all my father talks about."

She was prettier than his mother had described. Catelyn had told him she was yellow of hair with the Lannister eyes and a demure face, but as Robb observed the girl before him, he thought in contrary to those statements. Her hair was gold, as if the sun had poured over her head and fell into the wild, wind-licked curls that galloped to past her elbows, putting the Baratheon yellow of her gown to shame. Mocking it. Her eyes weren't simply _Lannister eyes_, they were the most luminous green he'd ever seen, as if all the color of the grass in the Seven Kingdoms had swept into her irises. And her face. She had a button nose, golden brows between thick and thin, with shell-pink lips that deliciously curved towards the sky as she neared. Robb gulped.

The princess released the reins of a fine, willowy horse as white as the late summer snow, and pulled his lord father and lady mother in for warm embraces. "Lady Stark, wonderful to meet you." She purred.

"And you." His mother replied, returning the hug before the princess- _Myrcella, Myrcella is her name_- returned to her place beside her horse.

The sound of quick paced hooves pulled Robb's attention, regrettably, back to the gates and he caught sight of the rest of the party. _Why had the princess traveled so far ahead, alone_? He thought she'd be riding with her mother in the royal wheelhouse.

In swept a boy that looked to be Robb's own age, who looked much like Myrcella only uglier and manlier. His wormy grey-pink lips were between a sneer and a mischievous smirk as his not-so-green Lannister eyes set on Sansa the moment he'd gotten close enough to see her. Robb glared and nudged closer to his sister upon seeing how she looked back at him. It was obvious he was the prince. Joffrey, was it? At any rate, his name didn't matter half so much as the nasty stare he held with Sansa. He was adorned interestingly in Lannister red and gold rather the colors of his father's House, like his sister was.

A brooding man with a snarling dog's helm came in after the prince, sitting atop an enormous black stallion with a flowing, choppy mane that _swooshed_ in the light breeze. Robb noticed the princess's hair doing the same, though much more fluidly.

"That's Jaime Lannister, the Queen's twin brother!" Robb heard Arya gasp in awe, and Sansa glowered, "Would you shut up?" His eyes searched the crowd for the Lion of Lannister, finding him immediately. He looked the image of his niece, golden locks left long, though not too long, and green eyes aglow with both disinterest and curiosity. With him were other guards, and then came riding the King and his brother.

Robert Baratheon, Robb was told, was once lean and tall and muscular, but it seemed to the eldest Stark that all the looks the royal once had fell to his brother, Renly Baratheon, who wasted no time in riding beside the princess and standing with her. The King himself was very tall indeed, but what he had in height he also had in girth, with a stiff looking black beard and long black hair. His Baratheon blue eyes were much darker and deeper than Robb's own Tully blue, and cut through the crowd to his father quickly.

"_Ned_!" He grinned largely, catapulting off of the large black warhorse he'd ridden in on. "Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours. You haven't changed at all."

Father seemed to regard the King for a moment before answering, "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours."

It was then that Robb allowed his eyes to venture. The Imp trotted in not long after the King, sitting atop a white pony that didn't look nearly as beautiful as the princess's own courser. The queen walked in with a little golden haired boy after the Imp, looking as regal and tall as one Queen could hope to look. Her hair was waving, rather curling as the other Lannisters- or half Lannisters- were. Green eyes scanned the crowd, bored and dull, and her lips were curled downwards as if she were disappointed with the destination they'd taken so long to reach. Robb wondered why it had taken them a whole month, if she'd stepped out of a carriage with forty draft horses, but he figured he'd dwell on it later.

His eyes went back to Myrcella, who seemed to be observing his siblings with great care, regarding each of them separately, brows knit together as if she were searching for their names, fishing for them in the oceans of her mind. Robb realized then just how much the princess looked like her mother, as Sansa did Catelyn. But Myrcella was much more beautiful, and he gulped again when her eyes fell on him.

Her expression changed, however slightly, and she studied him more closely than she had his siblings. Robb wished he'd shaved that morning.

With the sound of her father's voice, the princess was no longer looking at him, but the King, eyes now a blur of anger and angst. "Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects."

The Queen's eyes held the same expression as her daughter's. "We've been riding since dawn, my love. Everyone's tired and cold, surely we should refresh ourselves first. The dead will wait."

The courtyard fell silent, and the King stared at his wife with more hatred than Robb had ever experienced, clicking his tongue for Father to follow him while the Queen's twin, Jaime Lannister, held her elbow to keep her quiet.

Tension was growing thick, and Robb thanked the gods his mother spoke again. "Your Grace, may I introduce my children; Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon."

Cersei Lannister, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, gave them a smile- it wasn't warm or frozen, just chilly. Cold. "They're lovely." She purred, with all the dignity a Queen who had just been slighted by her King husband could muster. "And mine; my eldest son, Joffrey," She caressed her eldest son's hair affectionately, smiling with more heat now. "My youngest son, Tommen," The boy waited for the same attention, but received nothing. Not even a glance at her smile. "And I'm sure you've already met my daughter, Myrcella." As she spoke her daughter's name, Robb couldn't help but detect the slightest hint of cold anger. _Interesting_, he thought to himself, eyes lingering back to the princess after he'd bowed, holding the gaze she'd lingered on him.

Catelyn Stark smiled. "If would you follow me, Your Grace, we've already set up your rooms."

The escort into the keep was silent, and as everyone was ushered in and the Lannister and Baratheon guards got to work on unpacking carriage upon carriage full of trucks, Robb felt uneasy. Maybe the change he'd felt in the air earlier wasn't a good change. Or maybe the Queen's presence was just that uncomfortable to behold.

He stood, leaning against a wall with Theon and Jon not far behind him. They stared at the Princess Myrcella for a dreadfully long time before he elbowed them; but she seemed not to notice.

Myrcella was standing short between two tall men; the King's brother, Renly Baratheon, and a member of the Kingsguard, Arys Oakheart. She admired the walls and the floors and the ceilings, every little bit of the castle being devoured by her luminous green eyes. She untied her cloak, unsure of where to put it afterwards, but smiled as warmth engulfed her, pinkening her high cheeks.

"Let me, Your Highness." Robb offered before he could stop himself, arm out and palm up to accept the cloak.

He must have caught her off guard, for her eyes snapped to him and glued his feet to the floor. A cat-like smile grew on her lips and she dropped the cloak into his waiting hand. "I pray you take care of that cloak, it was a gift from my father." She grinned, and he could hear the jest in her voice as he recoiled his arm, feeling a blush tickle at his cheeks.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Your Highness. I hope you find our home to your liking." Robb said, offering her a small smile back.

The princess nodded, casually eying the light fixtures. "It's lovely." Turning to the window nearest her, she traced the edges with her long finger. "Thank you for accepting us on such short notice. I know it must have been stressful preparing the keep, but you did marvelously." The comment was surely to his mother, who smiled and nodded.

"It was no trouble, Your Highness."

Myrcella bobbed her head once, rolling her neck for a moment. Robb watched with curiosity as the knight rested a hand on her shoulder. He didn't like it. "Shall we find your chambers now, my princess?" _His princess_? Robb frowned at the nickname. _It's a nickname, only a nickname_. Or so he hoped.

"You must be tired." Renly agreed with Arys, nudging the princess lightly and looking down on her with laughing eyes that switched to Robb. "Would you be so kind as to send a maid to escort us?"

He was about to accept, but Sansa, of course, intervened. "I'll escort you, Your Highness." She said, smiling with a sudden spark in her eyes. _Anything to look good in front of the prince. _Joffrey looked over his shoulder to them at the sound of his sister's voice, smiling with pleasure. Robb wanted to knock the smile off of his girlish face. "It would be an honor." Sansa insisted.

"I would like that very much, Lady Sansa." The princess replied, smiling back. She turned again to Robb and said, "Thank you for the warm welcome." Her smile melted him, and she hugged her Uncle and the guard before taking Sansa's arm and being led away.

* * *

"I hear the Prince is a right royal prick." Robb mumbled as the barber rubbed his jaws, checking for any missed stubble. When he was free to go, he rolled his neck, feeling his jaw as he stood, pulling his shirt back on.

Theon grinned widely. "Think of all the southern girls he gets to stab with his right royal prick."

Robb rolled his eyes. "I don't like the way he looked at Sansa. Like she's a leg of mutton and not a girl." He ran his arms through the sleeves of his vest and then tied his cloak back on. He still had Myrcella's, folded neatly on the bench beside where he now sat. He toyed with it.

"The princess is a damn gem." Said his father's ward, who sat in the chair after Robb had gotten up, the barber cutting at his curling dark locks. "I saw the way you looked at her."

He scowled. "I didn't look at her any way. I just took her cloak is all."

"And still haven't sent it back to her room?" Theon wagged his brows. "You like her Stark. You want her."

Robb shook his head, freshly trimmed red curls swaying. "I just haven't gotten around to it, alright? I don't want her."

"You do." Theon's brows stopped wagging, only one staying up. "You think I'm stupid, Stark? I'm older than you, mind you. Been around you almost ten years. I'm not stupid. You've never looked at a girl that way."

"I never called you stupid, Greyjoy." Robb barked, eying the cloak still. It was black with gold trimming and a large yellow stag was stitched into the middle. _Very Baratheon_, he regarded. He'd never met anyone so proud of their House as Mycella seemed to be. "And so what if I do like her? Not like they're going to marry a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms to a boy that's not even a Lord yet."

Jon intervened then, from his quiet place beside the door, his own direwolf, an albino he'd found by the bridge after they'd started riding off, silent at his side. It was always silent; Ghost, he called it. "Why don't you tell Father? He and the King are close, and the King seems to think highly of you as a son of his eldest friend."

Robb shrugged, Theon standing and forcing Jon to take his place in the barber's chair. "Make sure to clean him up nice and good," Theon smirked to the barber, who nodded. "There's nothing Jon Snow loves more than his hair."

After the boys were shaven and their hair had been cut it, was dark out, moon slowly sliding into the sky just as the sun faded into the horizon, behind the snowcapped mountains with rivers pouring from them. Robb had asked a maid to take the Princess Myrcella's cloak to her room by then.

They were each dressed their best, Robb clad in his House colors, grey wool trimmed in white and a dashing cloak of black bear pelts to match his tall black boots. Theon was wearing a black doublet rimmed with gold, his House colors, with a gold kraken stitched into the back of his thin black cloak, the handiwork of Sansa. Even Jon was dressed up; wearing a set of dark grey wool trimmed in black, a thick woolen cloak over his shoulders that was so dark grey it could easily have been mistaken for black, the color of his short boots.

"Don't you three look like a force to be reckoned with?" The King appraised as they entered the main room, which lead to the Great Hall, laughter and the smell of ale and food already assaulting Robb's senses.

Still, he had his wits about him and nodded. "Thank you, Your Grace." He said, bowing, Theon and Jon following his lead. The King smiled appreciatively and nodded his head once, looking to Father.

"Ready, Stark?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Robb's father replied, offering his arm to the queen. She was adorned in a long gown with a train of silk trailing after her. It was ruby on the bodice that melted into gold below, gold filigree stitch work on top with ruby on the bottom. Her hair was pulled into an intricate birds nest looking style with braids and twists and two long, thin plaits falling to her hips. A jeweled tiara gleamed amidst the locks of gold, with emeralds to bring out the green of her eyes.

The Queen took his father's arm and walked in, eyes bored and distant. The king, clad in dark browns and blacks and yellows, went in after his wife, Robb's mother on his arm. Jon slipped away to enter through the back, where he would be sitting for the duration of the feast, so not to disturb Lady Stark.

Robb and Theon both sighed and rolled their eyes, and both caught sight of the three Baratheon children at the top of the staircase that led to the main room. The crowned prince Joffrey looked mightily bored, almost as much as his mother, long locks falling past his golden choker and high velvet collar. He was a mess of Lannister colors, red and gold and black boots. The prince Tommen looked nearly the same, only his hair was a few inches longer than Joffrey's. However, their attention wasn't on the princes, who found the young Stark daughters- standing surprisingly quiet behind Theon and Robb- and took their arms, pulling them to the feast, Joffrey with disdain and Tommen with glee. No, their eyes were on the princess.

Myrcella still stood at the top of the staircase, luminous eyes switching from Robb to Theon and back again. Her long golden curls were left down mostly, a few strands from the front pulled into loose braids on either side that met in the back, secured by metal bands. Her gown was of silks, like her mothers, but the exact shade of her eyes, making them even greener, to Robb's amazement. There were golden roses stitched around the hem of the skirt, with golden vines spinning up the length of the gown, drawing together to make one large rose on the bust, right between her… chest. Her sleeves were long and as she slowly made her way down, Robb noticed a glint on her feet, a smile tugging at his lips, the ones he tried desperately to steel. Her slippers were yellow and black, Baratheon colors, looking comfortable yet ornate. Robb wondered how her feet were so dainty.

"Your Highness." Robb and Theon said in unison, bowing quickly, lowly.

The princess smiled, "Good evening, Lord Stark, Lord Greyjoy."

Behind her, atop the staircase, came two figures. Both male. Robb recognized them quickly. Renly Baratheon was clad in velvets and fox pelts, white and yellow and black surrounding him, contradicting his green-blue eyes. Arys Oakheart was dressed in yellow and green himself, and Robb noticed how the green was the same green that Myrcella wore. Each man took one of her arms and she grinned wildly at them. "If you'll excuse me, Lord Robb, Lord Theon. I've a feast to attend." With that, she waltzed away, Renly twirling her into the room in a fashion Robb had only seen in the plays that his mother forced him to attend from time to time.

Theon immediately burst into laughter. "Looks like you've got some competition, Stark!" He mused though cackles, but Robb only shot him a glare and entered the feast with little Rickon at his heels. _When did he get there_? Theon went into the Great Hall with Bran not long after.

Music was searing through the hall, loud and happy with lots of drums and lyres. The King and Queen sat on the dais with the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, Robb's parents Eddard and Catelyn, eating and drinking and speaking politely. He didn't have to look far to see that the princess was already dancing with her Uncle Renly, who laughed at her as she swatted his shoulder, both of their eyes on Robb for only a moment's time before they swung around each other again. Her giggles filled the air almost as much as the aroma of wine and meat, delicious trills of laughter that were as musical as the instruments that played in the corner of the Great Hall.

Robb decided to sit where Theon rested himself, a table not far from the dais. "Enjoying the view?" Chided the Greyjoy, who bobbed his head along with the music. Or maybe it was along with Myrcella's laughter.

"Careful." Robb shot back, watching as Myrcella took the hand of Arys Oakheart and spun him around, Renly pulling a reluctant Sansa to the floor, though her worries melted as he twirled her like the princess that Myrcella was. Robb's eyes flickered to his other sister, Arya, who sat with excitement in her sleet grey eyes. He smiled. Arya was probably admiring the princess for her audacity to dance when it wasn't time, just for the fun of it. Arya liked girls like that.

Quickly, he got up and made his way to her, noting that more and more couples began to join in on the festivities. Even his mother and the King made their way down from the dais. "Arya," He called, and she hopped from her seat and bounded into his arms, giggling. "Will you dance with me?" He asked, and she nodded vigorously.

He swung her around the floor, and she laughed loudly, but then Theon cut in and began to twirl his sister around, and Robb felt near awkward in the middle of the dance floor all alone. "Lord Robb." Came a light, innocent voice, and he turned quickly.

Myrcella smiled cattishly at him and didn't bother to ask if he would like to dance before whisking him away, twirling and spinning and swinging with him. She wasn't the best dancer, but the fluidity of her movements made up for it ten fold. "Have you been enjoying yourself, Robb?" She asked as he twirled her away and pulled her right back.

Robb nodded, noting her use of his name without titles. It was taboo to do so in such a casual manor, but figured that it was a slip of the tongue. "I have. And you, Your Highness? Has the feast been treating you well?"

"I was not aware it was the feast that was taking care of me during my stay," She winked and pulled just a little bit closer. Closer than necessary. Closer than Robb was comfortable with. But it didn't seem to phase her, and they kept dancing as though it were nothing.

Robb felt the blush from earlier, when he'd taken her cloak, tickling away at his cheeks. He looked down at their feet. "I apologize, Your Highness."

Myrcella snorted in a very Baratheon manor. "Nothing to apologize for. And it's Myrcella."

"Excuse me, Your Highness?" He looked up again, brows raised.

She rolled her eyes. Her green, green, eyes, and Robb found himself getting lost in them. The princess was very beautiful. But her voice dragged him from the depths of his mind. "My name is Myrcella, not Your Highness. Just as yours is Robb."

He then realized that it wasn't a slip of the tongue earlier. She'd meant to call him by his name, as she means for him to call her by hers. "I'm sorry, but it's not proper, Your Highness."

She raised a brow, a golden, golden brow that was the perfect mix between thin and thick. "Is that so?" Robb nodded slowly. "Well, in that case." She made to leave, but he grabbed her hand, for some compelling, idiotic reason, and pulled her back.

"Why are you leaving?" He asked, red brows knitting together.

She shrugged and let him swung her back into the dance. "Because only strangers call me Your Highness. Strangers and politicians. And I dance with neither."

Something in her words made Robb laugh, loud and bright, and Myrcella grinned widely, as if she'd been waiting to hear it. He blushed again. They danced together until they were both dizzy out of their minds and completely out of breath, and Myrcella pulled him to the table where Theon had already reseated himself.

"How do you like the feast?" She asked Theon, smiling toothily. She had creamy white chicklet teeth, full and shining in the dimming candlelight.

"Quite well. And yourself, princess? I've heard you like dancing more than you like men." Theon jested, smirking. Robb glared at him, blue eyes meeting blue-grey darkly.

Myrcella's laugh filled both of their ears. "You're so much like my Uncles Renly and Stannis. It's rather amusing, really. Do loosen up, though, Robb. My Uncle Stannis can be quite the bore." He could tell there was a deep sarcasm in her light voice, and she took a long, sweet sip of wine and licked her lips, smile never leaving them. She must have had at least two or three cups throughout the night, though how Robb didn't know, as her cheeks were flushed with colors and she had been acting without the propriety she had been when he first brought her into the keep. Still, he thought he liked this Myrcella just as much.

"My princess," "Myrcella," Came two voices, meshed in unison. It was Arys and Renly, of course. "Her Grace, your lady mother, asked us to escort you back to your chambers. She mentioned something about acting like the Lion you were." Said Renly.

Arys smiled, holding his arm out to help her stand. "But we assure her that, being a Stag, you were acting perfectly in line."

Myrcella raised a brow, a delicious smirk on her lips. "Wonderful. Then I shall go with no complaint." She turned to Robb and Theon, green eyes alight from the candle's glow. "I apologize for leaving so soon. I hope to see you on the morrow though, to break your fasts with me. It would be a shame to miss your company for the _entire_ day."

"Where will you be spending your time?" Robb asked without thinking, Renly and Arys exchanging knowing glances.

"With your sweet sisters." She informed, before waltzing out of the Great Hall on the arm of both men, laughing and jesting like a true Baratheon. Robb spent the rest of that night wondering what it would feel like to have her draped around his arm, instead of her Uncle's or the guard's.


	3. Myrcella II

**Hey all, sorry for the delay in updating this fanfiction. I've been busy with my other story, A Wolf and Her Lion, and life has been throwing some curve balls at me- but at least I've update now, right? **

**Also, hungover Myrcella is pretty serious, as opposed to the fun sober one, not to mention the heavy topic at hand this chapter around. Keep that in mind. I'll start to update this more regularly for sure. Enjoy!**

* * *

Myrcella Baratheon had been drunk before, but never had she woken to the throbbing pain that tore her from her dreams of Highgarden that morning and ripped her eyelids open, hand flying to her forehead and covering her eyes. "Bloody hells," she muttered, rolling to the side of the bed opposite to the window that poured golden sunlight into her bedchamber.

"Oh good, you've finally decided to wake up."

The princess shot up, blurry vision searching for the one who had spoken, and she groaned and flopped back onto the bed when she caught sight of her mother, Queen Cersei Baratheon, standing by the brazier, which had been lit since the previous night.

Her mother looked a vision, as always, wearing a gown of buttercream that flowed behind her like water, swirls of scarlet climbing to her hips, which were belted with a thick golden sash, tassels of ruby hanging from it. She wore the colors of her House; not her House by marriage, as would be custom, but her House by birth. Myrcella's mother always dressed as a Lannister, as though she were holding onto the one thing she were proud of, because there were only two things that Cersei truly thrived off of; Being a Lannister, and Joffrey.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there, mother." Myrcella said, rubbing sleep from her eyes and pulling golden curls from her face. The overwhelming pounding rang in the back of her head again and she restrained from whimpering in the presence of her mother. She was in no mood to be scolded.

Cersei sighed, "Get up, Myrcella, you're already running late. Have you already forgotten you're to sit in with the Stark girls today?"

Myrcella's eyes grew wide and she clenched her jaw tight. She'd completely forgotten. That and she asked Robb and Theon to break their fasts with her. "Bloody hells," she repeated quietly, rolling her eyes as her mother clicked her tongue.

"Watch your mouth, Cella. You're a Princess of the Iron Throne, not a milkmaid." Cersei reprimanded, sneering distastefully as the princess rose again, slower this time so not to upset her head further. "You look like you've seen a ghost, child," said the Queen.

_No, just you, mother_, Myrcella wanted to chide, but she'd likely get a slap in the face for that comment. Instead she stayed silent as she slid from the four-post feather bed, rolling her neck and shaking out her legs as she stood.

The room looked so distressed with her trunks of gowns and silks and jewels strewn about, and half of them looked like they'd been looted from when she'd been searching for a nightgown after she'd gotten back to her chambers last night.

"I'm fine," Myrcella had told her Uncle Renly with utter confidence that night before she slipped on her step and laughed uncontrollably, falling to the floor of icy cold paved stones and clutching her stomach, feeling as her cheeks flushed.

Renly laughed and Arys pulled her to her feet, picking her up and carrying her the rest of the way to her rooms, "If only your mother could see you like this," Renly mused, "Acting more Baratheon than even your father."

In the moment, Myrcella had laughed like a cow at her Uncle's statement, but now, as she held locks of gold from her face with one hand and grabbed a bedpost with the other for support, she could only feel a fool.

She'd acted like a Baratheon, that was for sure. She'd been drunk and bold and silly, holding the eldest Stark boy far too close and dancing with him for far too long.

The Queen cleared her throat and raised a brow, "We haven't all day, sweetling." she said, nodding her head to a chest full of gowns in the Lannister colors. _Of course_, Myrcella thought dryly. Weighing her options and mother's reactions in her mind, she regarded the gold gowns, figuring that she could turn them Baratheon enough by dressing it with jewels of onyx, but then another gown caught her attention.

It was river blue with gold accents, thick and wool lined for warmth while covered in silk for looks. It went with a tall golden belt wrought in floral designs and had dagged sleeves that touched the ground when her arms were at her sides. It wasn't the intricacy of the gown that appealed to her though; the color was near the exact shade that she remembered Robb's eyes to be. _Mayhaps if he sees me in this, he'll forget about breakfast_, she thought as she graced the silk with her fingers, smiling.

She lifted the gown and shrugged off her robe, pulling the dress on with ease even without the help of Malorie- who must have been out running errands- disregarding Cersei and her disapproving sneer. The gown fit perfectly, hugging her curves and displaying all the right assets. It was stunning.

"Don't parade around like some frivolous whore, it's unfitting of you. You're betrothed now," Cersei said with distaste, eying her daughter carefully.

Myrcella's head shot in the direction of her mother, emerald eyes widening, ignoring that her mother had just called her a whore. "Betrothed? To who?" She tilted her head curiously and raised a brow. Surely her father, the King Robert Baratheon, had not agreed to a betrothal? And in Winterfell over home in King's Landing at that? Did Renly know? Arys?

Cersei rolled her eyes, bored, and tossed her hair. "Why don't you ask your drunkard father," She said, "He is your favorite, isn't he?"

"Oh mother don't be a craven," Myrcella moaned, clasping a long golden chain with an onyx Baratheon stag pendant on the end around her neck and slipping rings of opal and diamond and sapphire onto various fingers.

Her mother was in no mood for such insolence though, it seemed. "Don't you _dare_ speak to me like that!" Cersei breathed harshly, stepping across the room and raising her arm. The smack felt harder than it probably was and Myrcella cupped her cheek with her hand, face turned to the right from the impact. "You are a Princess of Westeros, Myrcella, and a lion. You best act like it or I may just replace your _precious_ Arys Oakhart with the Mountain. Heavens forbid if you weren't my daughter and blood I'd have shipped you off to Essos by now."

With that, the Queen swept from the room and Myrcella was left there screeching her hatred at her, not caring who heard, until her throat was raw and burned. A maid came in, though not her Malorie, and she seethed at her, "Fetch me my Uncle Renly. And my knight, bring him to me too. Arys Oakhart." The girl, who couldn't have been more than eleven, nodded frantically and gathered her skirts of grey- _a Stark servant_, Myrcella realized- as she ran from the room.

She paced and paced, all the while screaming her House words in her head- _Ours is the fury, ours is the fury_- as angry as she near ever got at her mother, but as soon as her lord Uncle and her knight barged into the room her anger dissipated and she allowed herself to release cold, silver tears that steamed from the heat of her ruby cheeks.

"I am no Lion of Lannister." She told them firmly as they entered, gripping one of the posts of the bed to occupy at least one of her hands- hands that so very wanted to return Cersei's slap to her. "I am a bloody _Baratheon Stag_, damn it!"

The two had seen her in such a state before, Renly and Arys, though they'd never seen hand prints on their sweet princess' face. "Your mother did this?" Renly asked just as Arys hissed, "I'll kill the damned woman," through ground teeth. Renly gave a dark look to Arys, for they both knew just how impossible that was and how dangerous it was to make such a promise in front of their so distressed and so desperate princess. "We should tell your father," Said the Lord of Storms End knowingly.

Myrcella's emerald eyes shot up to his face, clouded and ominous. "No." Despite it all- even the hard-to-ignore trickle of blood from the cut Cersei's nails had left on her cheek and the swelling that the princess knew was taking place- the Queen was still her mother, and it would be a right royal shame to see her mother put down for harming a hair on King Robert's favorite child. "We'll tell no one. Renly, find Malorie, would you?"

"For powder?" Renly asked, raising a brow.

The princess rolled her eyes of evergreen, "Heavens no," She said. "I simply need my hair brushed." She knew what he meant- powder was what her mother used to hide bruises her father had given her, and what highborn and lowborn girls alike used to fill in pockmarks, but Myrcella was no simple highborn and certainly not a lowborn, nor was she the woman who birthed her. She would wear the palm print on her cheek as a badge of bravery, for in all her life that was all she ever wanted to be. Brave.

* * *

The North was indeed beautiful.

After Malorie Flowers had run a silver plated brush with thousands of thin alabaster bristles through Myrcella Baratheon's hair at least a hundred times, the princess figured it was time to face her hosts as honorable as any hung-over, facially marred Princess of the Seven Kingdoms could- and her breath was taken from her the first time she'd stepped out of the castle.

The view was like a dream. The sky was fully blue-grey- for it was surly midday by the time the princess had left her chambers, Renly and Arys having gone with Malorie to make sure that there would be food for Myrcella to break her fast on- and there were ominous yet curious silver clouds dotting the vastness, covering the sparkling sun. Along the horizon were tall evergreens that must have been greener than even a Lannister's eyes, or a Baratheon's in Myrcella, Tommen, and Joffrey's cases, with summer snow capping them like a soldier's helm. The mountains were just as armored with their crystal beauty, glittering like a thousand, thousand diamonds as far as the eye could see.

Northern winds blew as cold as Cersei Baratheon's heart, causing Myrcella to pull her cloak closer to her body- one of deep, near black blue to compliment the gown she'd chosen- which now was cluttered with the sprinkles of snow that the gusts of sweet, crisp air blew.

If she looked down below, she could see the younger Stark son training, swinging his sword like his life indeed depended on it, the son even younger than he watching with those bright Tully eyes. _How queer_, Myrcella thought, _that people accuse my mother of committing incest with my uncle because my brothers and I look so very Lannister, yet the honorable Catelyn Tully-Stark gets no greif though all but one of her children look as Tully as her_.

Yes, the princess knew right well of the rumors that circled the whole of her father's kingdoms. _Sisterfucker_, they whispered about her Uncle Jaime, the true Lion of Lannister and most beautiful knight that Myrcella had ever laid eyes on. _Brotherbedder_, they'd said of her mother. But it was all hogwash- if the Stark children could look Tully, aside from Arya, then the Baratheon children could look Lannister, aside from the one child that had died before it had a chance to truly live.

Before Myrcella, or even Joffrey, there had been another prince. Black of hair with eyes of blue, so like Robert that one might have called it witchcraft. But he had died of a fever, so young and so weak, that it had taken Cersei near two years to even think of baring another child- it had to be why she was so protective of the son that ended up living, Myrcella had always tried to rationalize, but what of she and Tommen? To her, they were very much alive.

"Princess?" Came a soft voice that Myrcella only vaguely recalled. Turning, she felt a warm, delicious smile grow on her lips. It was Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, in all his fleeting glory. He looked dashing that day, donning a pair of light grey woolen pants and a doublet of white, all lined in black as dark as his mud-covered boots. His cloak of silver painted the world behind him as another gust of wind picked up.

Myrcella then remembered that she'd promised him a breakfast, and that she was to sit in with his sisters that day, but since it was so late it seemed all for naught to start keeping to her word. "Lord Robb," She said, bowing her head, sunshine waves trickling over her shoulders like molten gold- it was one of her vanities, her hair, and she found she liked it even more as Robb's crystal blue eyes watched it roll down past her breasts and to the mid of her ribcage. "I'm sorry I missed the morning meal. I know I promised..."

"Please," Robb held his hand up, gloved with black boiled leather, as was the other. "I missed it anyhow. And I am no lord, yet, Your Highness... What happened to your cheek?"

Rolling her eyes, the princess sighed and folded her arms, ignoring the low sting it was to hear that even if she had made it to the breakfast, he would not have been there anyways. "Don't worry about it. And if you're not wanting to be called _Lord_ Robb and you believe my calling you _just_ Robb is improper, then what should I call you? And for the love of the gods new and old, my name is _Myrcella_."

She truly hadn't meant to be so harsh, and even as she said her words she wanted to take them back. Robb's face fell with each new blow and he looked down, face flushed red. He blushed so prettily, and Myrcella felt even worse for making him upset. "My apologies, Myrcella... Just call me Robb." He said after a thought.

Stepping forward, she curled a finger under his chin and raised his head so she could look him in the eyes- a near exact match of the gown she'd decided on just for that fact. "If it would make you feel better, you can dare call me a Lady." She told him, and grinned when his lips whispered the smallest of smiles.

He reached his hand up, thumb gracing just under the cut that her mother's slap had left on her cheek. "Will you truly not tell me how this happened?" He asked, raising a ruby brow.

Myrcella just pulled her face away and stepped back, once more looking out towards the view of the mountains. "I was very drunk last night Robb," She said, sighing lightly. "Sometimes things like this just happen." Looking back to Robb, the princess flashed him a lazy smile. "As I said, don't worry about it. I'll be good as new by next morn."

Robb looked unconvinced, but said nothing. _But he is handsome_, Myrcella thought as she observed him. His crimson hair curled all about him, crystal blue eyes glimmering despite he lack of sun. He was nay on a foot taller than she, and strong, clearly.

Thinking of him and his handsome features, Myrcella began to grin deviously, but then she remembered her mother's words. "_Don't parade around like some frivolous whore, it's unfitting of you. You're betrothed now_," Cersei said. Betrothed, but to who? Myrcella's expression grew determined as she clutched the railing on the balcony, tensing.

All her life she was able to be free- or rather all her life but the first five years that were devoted to Cersei- and now she was to be shipped off somewhere, married to a fat lord no doubt that was probably a great deal older than she. And what of Joffrey? How was it that she was to be engaged before her elder brother, the crowned prince who was to be King one day? She shook her head, biting her lip in concentration, brows knitting together.

_How could they_, she thought coldly. Was it a scheme? A trick? Were they truly so tired of her shenanigans that they deemed it fit to sell her to an old man with lesser titles than she probably deserved? It was Cersei's doing, she thought at first, but even the Queen couldn't have convinced her father to do this.

She looked up at Robb, who eyed her suspiciously, having no idea what was burning through her mind. He was surely allowed to marry at will, or at least have a choice in his bride, right? Regardless of Robb's marriage options, Myrcella knew she had to get to the bottom of her own and grabbed his wrist, pulling him along with her. "Come on Robb," she said as she flashed him a sly smirk, "you're going to help me solve a mystery."

* * *

They'd only gotten ten paces from the balcony before Renly and Arys found them, exchanging knowing looks. Arys smiled and held his arm out for Myrcella, but she was already attached to Robb, who blushed beet red as Renly winked at him.

"They've set up your midday meal in the great hall," her knight informed her, but she waved her hand, shaking her head.

"There's no time for a meal now, we're on a mission." She said, nodding to Robb. "It seems I've found myself in a rather odd predicament and I mean to find out the truth of it" Myrcella looked over to Renly. "Have you seen my father?"

Renly shook his head, blue-green eyes bright. "I haven't seen Robert since last night, I fear. Mayhaps if we find Lord Stark, he'll know."

Myrcella pursed her lips and nodded slowly, eyes flickering to Robb. "Do you know where your lord father is, Robb? I seem to have misplaced mine own-"

Just then, as they began walking down the hall that led to the chambers where most of the royal family stayed, Myrcella heard a familiar chuckle. "Ah," She breathed, knowing exactly where her father was now. She released Robb and bounded up the hall, all three boys following slowly after her, cautious of her discovery.

She swung the door open and folded her arms as she caught sight of her king father sitting on his bed with a whore on his lap. Both were dressed and he looked sober, but she was still irritated. He had a wife that might just love him if he let her, a wife that had more beauty than she knew what to do with.

Looking at the whore that Robert all but shoved off of him while he cursed and pulled a tunic over his head, Myrcella saw that she was just a plain faced girl with a flat nose. Her hair was seemingly unbrushed and mouse-brown, and she had hazel eyes that were surrounded by a mask of freckles and sunspots.

"Come now, father, you can do better than that." Myrcella chided as the lanky girl, who couldn't have been more than fifteen, scurried out the door, pulling the sleeves of her gown up higher as she ran.

Robert rolled his eyes, as blue as the Sunset Sea. "Don't mock me girl, I'm too hungover for it." He said, groaning as she picked up a pitcher of water and poured a glass, handing it to him. Renly, Arys, and Robb all stood in the doorway, watching the two interact.

Myrcella laughed, "It seems we're both living up to our namesake then," she said, pouring herself a goblet of water and taking a sip.

"What business have you, girl?" Robert questioned as he rose and opened his wardrobe, regarding his choices with a careful eye. Myrcella went to him after setting down her cup and tugged on the sleeve of a velvet doublet the color of her eyes with stags of honey sewn into it, pulling a pair of cream breeches for him to wear with them. The king laughed while nodding his consent of her choice and kissed her cheek, making her hiss in pain. "...Where in the hells did you get that?" He asked, brows knit together and finger pointing at her swollen, cut cheek.

The princess observed as her father's eyes raged, as if waves rose and crashed in his velvet blue irises. "It was nothing, really father. I was drunk last night is all." She said nonchalantly, shrugging. "Now, about the business I have-"

"Myrcella, if you were drunk enough to cut yourself like that, then you're not nearly as much your mother's daughter as you are. Now tell me," Robert insisted, pulling on the doublet that his daughter picked out, then the breeches over his thick legs.

"I'm not nearly her daughter at all," muttered the princess, tapping her foot against a pair of tall black boots with gold lining. "These ones. And I'm telling the truth, father, it was the wine." And it was the wine; wine that left her hungover enough to speak as freely as she had with Cersei.

He stared at her for long before sighing and shaking his head, sitting on the bed and grabbing the boots she chose, yanking them on. "But you are like me, girl. Just like I was at your age." He sighed once more and looked up at her after he had finished pulling his boots on. "Alright, what's on your mind."

"Mother told me something troubling this morn," said the princess, who folded her arms and leaned against the silken drapes of onyx and gold. "And I fear I do not consent. Tell me true, father, did you sell me off to some fat old oaf?"

For a long moment the room was quiet, and then all but Myrcella and Robb laughed, and heartily at that. Her cheeks flared up and she uncrossed her arms, balling her hands up. "You have, haven't you?" She accused, feeling a mixture of sad and angered.

"You're one that's quick to judge," Renly said from across the room as he walked to her, laughing still. "Yes, you're betrothed now, sweet girl."

"That much was clear," She said coolly. "But to _who_? Why me and not Joffrey? He's to be King, it's a disgrace on him for his younger sister to marry before him." The princess pointed out, looking over to Arys. "Is this what you refused to tell me on the King's Road?"

Her knight nodded, chuckling. "Why are you laughing?" Myrcella asked him, furrowing her brows. "Why are you all laughing?"

"I don't know how Robb Stark likes hearing that he's a fat old oaf," Said her father, and all looked to the Tully colored boy. He was staring at Myrcella though, giving her a shy smile as his cheeks burned bright pink. "There, girl, that's him."

Myrcella just stared at Robb, emerald eyes burning those of sapphire. Her mother had called her a frivolous whore, knowing that it was Robb Stark that she was to be married to and knowing it was Robb Stark that the princess had been trying to win over. _Why would she berate me so_? Myrcella wondered, frowning.

Turning to face her father, she tilted her head. "Why?" She asked. She hadn't meant it in a bad nature, but she was simply so curious. Robb stepped further into the room then, looking meekly at his bride to be.

"It's a good match," The king replied simply. "Ned's a friend to our family, and my most loyal of followers. I made the deal years ago, Cella. His first son and my first daughter."

She eyed Robb again and let herself laugh, however quietly. "Well that wasn't much of a mystery to solve, was it?" He laughed too and shook his head. "We'll just have to find a new one then. It seems we have the time for it." She said, smiling. She turned back to her father. "When are we to be married?"

Robert shrugged. "I had hoped you would be wed before we return to King's Landing," he admitted.

"We, as in, you and the others will go and leave me here in Winterfell..." Myrcella said slowly after a time, pursing her lips. "That's quite the bit of planning to do in such a little time."

Robb placed a hand on her shoulder. "My mother has agreed to plan most of the wedding," he told her. "She's actually very excited about it. She wants to start right away."

Myrcella nodded, looking away from all in the room, turning to peer out the window as light began breaking through the looming sheet of grey clouds. There were two ways to react, the princess realized. She could be angry and scornful and grow up with a man she hated as her husband, like her mother had done with her father, or she could accept it wholly and have the greatest adventure of all, giving it a chance at the least. The decision was clear to her and she turned, flashing them all a dazzling, bright smile.

"I'm in."

* * *

**One last note to a user that reviewed my story recently...**  
**dhh: I just wanted to say, had you read my second chapter, you would have known that I didn't cut Jon out, he just wasn't a big part of that part of the story (for Myrcella at the time, anyways) but I assure that he'll be in later chapters, with a bigger role. **

**I just want to remind everyone that this is a Robbcella centric fanfiction. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Cersei I

**Hey guys! Here is another update for you to enjoy! (Or at least I hope you enjoy it!) **

**Sorry it's a bit late, but I got an idea of doing a Cersei POV, and she's just a _character_ to write! Hoping you don't kill me with pitchforks or riot! :)**  
**Thanks for reading in advance!**

* * *

The silver fog of the morning rose slowly from the pond, whorls dancing around the trees and caressing the clouds above. The light from the sky was brilliant, turned to diamonds in the reflection of the pool, and all around life roused in the forest. It was melting from night to day and as the moon dripped down the sky like a droplet of water, the sun bloomed as beautiful as a golden lily.

Cersei sat in the godswood, dressed in emerald lined in white, cloak of alabaster trimmed in black fox draped around her. Throughout her life in the South, the queen had never once visited a godswood, but in the light of the looming circumstances, she'd decided the Seven hadn't wanted to hear her prayers.

She'd been in her chambers, staring at herself in the mirror as her handmaid ran a brush through her hair, when Robert waltzed in, as drunk as he'd near ever been. "Come and kiss me, woman," he'd slurred at her, grinning stupidly.

Her nose had wrinkled at him and she shooed her maid away, rising in a fury- the only kind of fury she'd ever be proud of, despite her marriage to a Baratheon- and glared at the man that was her husband. He had once been handsome, with long black locks and a thick beard to contrast his bright blue eyes, and gods was he strong, but the years had not been kind to him and he'd ruined his body with the burdens of ruling the realm when it was clear he wasn't fit for the task.

"You're drunk, Robert. Mayhaps you'd rather sleep it off," she replied coldly, folding her arms and switching her gaze from him to their feather bed, ugly and simple and not nearly full of enough furs to warm her at night.

The king simply rolled his eyes and scoffed, waving his finger at her. "Good thing the girl isn't like you," he'd said, and she knew he meant Myrcella. She was their only daughter; strong, beautiful, smart, but too passionate and not ambitious enough for her position as a princess- a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. "Wouldn't be easy to marry her off if she was like you."

Cersei's eyes narrowed further when he'd said that. "The gods have seen fit to make her yours for true." She remembered turning to pull a robe on when Robert barked a laugh. "What is so funny, Robert?"

"Mine for true? You're a mad woman; she's Robb Stark's for true! I'm just the oaf that will be shipping her down the bloody aisle." He tried to rip his shirt off but fell half way and she'd left him laying on the ground, left to fester in her thoughts and concerns on her own as he began snoring, loud and unfit of a king.

It had been a week from then, and she'd still not come around to the idea. She'd not always been a good mother to her daughter, she knew, but she'd given her all the means to make herself as smart and successful as she could be- was that not love in itself? The queen sighed. Had she given more attention to her daughter, her only sweet little girl, she may have been closer to her, had a stronger bond to her. Yet she'd not cared a second for her until now, now that she was to be married off to a sloppy northerner with wild wolves scurrying about and monstrously large bears in their forests.

She sneered then, leaning closer to the heart tree. What had she done so wrong? Her second born, her darling baby, resented her. Myrcella had been so easy as a young one of but five, but as the years went on it was as though the girl hated her mother. Her mother who still remembered giving her kisses and holding her when she was sick and brushing her hair personally, even still, though the child detested it and shied from her mother's hand like it had been death itself.

Rising, Cersei had decided she had enough praying. She would go break her fast and bathe; the northern dirt had been as kind to her fine velvet gown as she herself had been to her daughter a week passed.

* * *

After she'd been bathed and dressed in a gown of even finer silks and heavy scarves and robes of all sapphire and gold, Cersei made her way to the day room. Catelyn Stark had been kind in inviting her to every little activity that was happening in Winterfell, and the queen supposed it may as well have been a good thing; she would have been so terribly bored if she hadn't a task every second. The life as a royal was _never_ so forgiving as to give her a day off.

"Your Grace," greeted the barrage of women once Cersei's handmaids opened the door for her and she swept into the room, hands clasped at her lap. She bowed her head to them and all exchanged pleasantries- _so touching and quaint, these women are_- before her lead lady in waiting, Jocelyn Swyft, handed her needles and thread of gold and crimson and black, both taking a seat by the window.

The pretty Stark daughter, a girl with fiery hair and large blue eyes, was chatting away stupidly with a plain faced, brown haired girl, while her sister, the ugly girl, sat indignantly in the corner, stabbing the cloth she was trying to sew on while her septa reprimanded her. The child glared all around the room and held Cersei's eyes for longer than the rest before she threw down the cloth and stormed from the room, muttering obscenities.

"Arya!" The fat septa called, clearly angry. _Old cow can't control her bladder any better than she can that little girl I'm sure_, the queen assessed as she stared after the crone, now fleeing after the young '_Arya_'. Her attention was snapped back to the room when a hand touched her arm and she forced herself not to wretch it away. She looked back into a pair of cold blue eyes and raised a brow.

"I'm so sorry, Your Grace. Arya normally doesn't act so..."

"Beastly," the queen finished for the Lady Stark. Her eyes flickered to the window and she caught sight of Myrcella, golden hair flowing in the breeze as freely as her light green cloak, rimmed in brown rabbit fur to match her gloves. "My daughter is the same at times," she murmured, setting the needles on her lap as she watched the princess.

She was standing with the bastard Snow and the ward, the Greyjoy boy, watching as her intended pulled his arm back and loosed an arrow, hitting the target, if only slightly off center. Myrcella laughed, and Cersei was sure all the ladies in the room could hear. She grabbed the bow and stole an arrow from the Stark boy's quiver, pulling her arm back and grinning before she loosed an arrow of her own, hitting ever so further from the mark than the boy with auburn hair.

The dirty boys laughed at her daughter and the queen rose. She was acting like a barbarian, shooting arrows like that and laughing with a group of smell men, no chaperone in sight though she stood only feet from her betrothed, Robb Stark. Jocelyn looked at her with her watery eyes and nodded, stepping from the room with all the grace she had to go fetch the princess.

"We're to share grandchildren soon," Lady Catelyn said softly, as if to pull Cersei back down to earth, "perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if their mother was familiar with the customs... Has the princess studied much on the North?"

"No," Cersei replied sharply, taking up with her sewing again. "She's learned heavily of the southern ways and people and history, for it was always assumed she would marry a southern lord... Robert never told me of whatever_ pact_ he and your husband created."

The Lady looked down and sighed. "Nor did Ned tell me... I'm glad to welcome your daughter, though. She is very beautiful and charming, Your Grace. She'll make a fine Stark."

"And would have made a better Lannister." Cersei bit back a sigh and continued with her work.

They sat there for what seemed years before Jocely Swyft entered with a very angry Myrcella. "What business have you, mother?" She asked, clear and calculated.

"You are to sit in with us this day, Myrcella," Cersei replied to her daughter. "Since you have seemed to all but forgotten every other invitation extended to you from these... lovely... people." She gestured to Catelyn and her remaining daughter, who looked at the princess in awe and excitement.

She crossed her arms. "I'll not. I'm spending time with Robb." Looking to Catelyn, she smiled, "We've been planning this wedding for a week without rest, my lady, surely a break for one day will be permitted."

The Lady Catelyn smiled back, warmly at that, and nodded. "As long as your lady mother consents-"

"-You're to be my lady mother too, more so than mine own now that I'm to live in your home for the rest of my days. Don't you have any say?" Myrcella glanced to her mother then and grinned darkly, and Cersei could still see the mark of where she slapped the girl for calling her a craven. _With good reason_, she thought, recalling the morning with a vengeance, resisting the urge to growl.

"You'll not be out with the boys today," Cersei told her with a brute force in her icy voice. "You will stay inside and practice your needlework like a princess should, and we'll hear naught more of this. Say another word against it, and I'll damn this betrothal and force you a marriage to Illyn Payne."

Myrcella's mouth gaped and twisted as a seed of anger planted in her, in fact all of the ladies in the room looked stunned, no matter how terribly they concealed it, but the queen paid no mind as she began sewing once more. It would be a lion by the end of it all, as they always were.

* * *

Myrcella had complied only long enough for the first lady to leave, and made an excuse to promptly leave with her, and now Cersei watched- from the castle which she flocked to after she'd finished her sewing- as her princess daughter galloped around the castle grounds on the horse her sword swallowing Uncle Renly had given to her for her nameday some years passed.

She trotted along side Ser Arys, while Robb and Renly chased one another, racing to see whose horse ran faster. The Greyjoy and the Snow sat on their steeds as well, watching and joking, laughing with the rest of them.

Cersei remembered being that young; playing with her friend Melara and fantasizing about the men she adored, both of gold and of silver. While she had always loved her brother, her twin, her soul mate, she had felt pulled to Rhaegar Targaryen once- before he ran away with the filthy Stark whore and ruined himself, killed by the man that Cersei was married to instead.

Rhaegar had been handsome; long silver-white hair with lilac eyes like the sky before a sunrise. He had been cunning to boot; at least until he stole Lyanna Stark away. _How quaint_, she thought now,_ for Rhaegar took Lyanna, Robert's love, and Robert killed the prince I might have married had it not been for the sickly Elia_. _Oh how different the realm would be if the tables had been turned, and Robert had died with his northern slut, and I married the victorious prince. How different and how strange_.

She wouldn't have her Joffrey if she hadn't married Robert- or maybe she would. Who was to know if she would remove her tie from Jaime for the sake of Rhaegar; she hadn't for the Baratheon swine she wed. Turning from the window, the Queen of Westeros frowned and caressed her stomach softly, remembering.

She had loved Robert once. When he was tall and strong and handsome, but her love melted the moment he whispered Lyanna's name into her ear on their wedding night. It was when she found herself impregnated from that night's fruitful endeavor that she realized she hated Robert.

Cersei knew she would love her children, it was a gift given from her mother she was told, for how fiercely protective she was of the those close to her, but upon hearing the news she was carrying a Stag Spawn, she felt nothing. Only the shivering indifference of a woman who _wasn't_ a mother.

She'd tried to rid herself of it with moon tea, but the child as stubborn and stayed, like she would expect from a Baratheon, and instead, when it was born, she left it to its demise until it took fever and died. She didn't cry. Didn't bang her fists against walls or scream or anything. She just stared at it, so like Robert it was near magic, and sent it to the crypts. Robert had taken to naming it Steffon, after his father, but to Cersei it was dubbed_ mistake_.

It was entirely different when Joffrey was born, and she smiled at the memory. A long day and night she labored to bring him forth, and when she caught sight of his mangled and blood-stained gold wisps her heart skipped a beat. _So like his father_, she recalled thinking, but now that he was grown she thought him like herself. Willed and proud, like a Lion through and through.

Though Cersei loved her son more than the stars and heavens above, the feeling that washed over her when Myrcella was born almost softened her enough to let Jaime behold her, but not quite. She was a perfect babe, born with a full head of golden curls and her big green eyes so full of trust and love. She was beautiful, and stole the heart of all who saw her- even Robert wouldn't leave her alone until she was old enough to speak and she would talk from dawn to dusk, asking so many questions that the maesters were oft left stumped. She was always a curious little girl, and now her curious little girl would be shut away, to the cold depths of the icy north, where history was concealed in some silly tree or flower.

She sighed. She knew she was too harsh on her daughter earlier that day, and certainly while they were surrounded by so many ears, but insolence was one thing she would not stand for. Nor would she stand for her own blood, her only daughter, saying that the filthy Catelyn Stark was her mother more than Cersei herself.

_It's not fair_, Cersei thought darkly. _Myrcella is my daughter, my only girl, and she's to be taken from me, ripped from her whole family and alienated in the damndable Winterfell. And she doesn't even care. She's turning her back on us. On me and Jaime and Joffrey and Tommen. On her family_. 'Cella was to be sold like some common whore to a dirty man that would inherit a dirty seat and they would have dirty, mixed mutts. She would be running with wildlings by the end of it, Cersei was sure.

There was a knock on the door and she looked up, being torn from her brooding mind. "Come in," she called. Her husband came in, surprisingly, and she steeled herself, folding her hands at her lap and looking away from him. "What do you want, Robert?" She asked, raising a brow.

"I want to apologize," he said gruffly. "For hitting you earlier, that is. I never meant to... You shouldn't defy your King, woman."

He looked so sad and fat, sitting across from her, but she could see the man he once was. The man she sometimes saw in him; times like now. He reached a hand up and brushed a thumb over where her cheek was bruised from the back of his hand, from when he learned of what she had said to their daughter.

She narrowed her eyes, focusing them on the floor. "That's not what you want to talk about, I know you better than that. Tell me, Robert, and tell me quick. I'll not have you wasting both of our times."

Her cold shoulder must have smacked him in the chest and he looked away, dark blue eyes sweeping like an ocean wave. "The girl... Her wedding will be in a week and I want to make sure the preparations will be complete in time."

Cersei flicked her wrist in indifference. "They are completed now. We could marry her on the morrow and be done with it." She and Lady Catelyn had worked frivolously for days until it was all set, and while Myrcella had claimed to help all she did was sit around or sneak away to see the boys with her Arys and Renly.

They'd embellished one of Cersei's smaller gowns for the princess to wear and the Stark boy had his garb made before-hand. The cloaks were simple to come by and the food was in plenty. There was little more to do. "I don't see why we have to marry her off so soon. Robb Stark will still be in Winterfell five years from now."

"I'll not waste this time. We're here, we'll do it. If we want to visit them five years from now, I want to see some grandchildren!"

She glared at her husband. "Our daughter is fourteen, Robert. She's hardly old enough-"

"-She's old enough, woman. She's bled, or so you've mouthed about, and so she can hold a babe in that belly of hers. Mayhaps we'll be lucky enough to hear word before we've left in three weeks."

The queen snarled distastefully and turned away from Robert, staring outside her window once more. Myrcella was talking with the bastard boy now, Jon or Jim or whatever he fancied, and Arys Oakhart, while Robb mooned over her across the yard with Theon and Renly, the three boys clearly pretending to admire the swords and arrows in the yard while they spoke of the marriage bed or something grotesque of the sort.

She stood in an angry silence until Robert gave up and shook his head, rising and leaving her to her peace. _Peace_, Cersei snorted, pouring herself a tall glass of wine,_ a queen's life never consists of peace._ She sighed after she swallowed a large amount of the wine and closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose. This would be a very long week_._

* * *

**Let me know how I did on imploring Cersei's mind; don't hold back. I could use the tips you can offer me!**

**Be sure to tell me if there are any POVs you'd like to see in the future, or if you'd be interested in having chapters be split between characters every once in a while! Remember to review after you read- it keeps my mind flowing!**


	5. Robert I

**Here is a highly requested POV- Robert Baratheon! I hope you enjoy this... It was really hard for me to write, because we don't really get an insight of what goes on in Robert's head in the books, nor what he hopes or dreams of. Needless to say, he might not be a POV I write often because of this.  
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**Anyways, thanks for reading in advance. Can't wait to hear from you!**

* * *

In the early morning, with everyone asleep and all of the forest as silent as a crypt, the city of Winterfell seemed dead.

_Death_, Robert snorted and poured himself a glass of wine, staring out the window. It had to be dawn or earlier, for the sun was still dormant behind the vast winter mountains, yet the King could not find seep. Cersei lay in bed with soft snores filling the room, quiet and queenly and pretty like she was, all golden hair and big green eyes. He remembered when he married her. He had not loved her, in fact, he misliked her almost as much as he did now for her ignorance and silly dreams. But now it was Myrcella marrying. His only daughter. Perhaps that was why sleep left him? Because if he was dreaming of Lyanna Stark he couldn't dwell on his future without Myrcella Baratheon.

She was a pretty little thing, his girl; silk-spun gold curls and eyes like emeralds that dazzled him to this day. He could still recall coming home from his hunting trip to see a princess in his wife's arms, reaching for him with all the trust that babies seemed to emanate and he had loved her from that moment. Sure, as a girl she was molded into a puppet of the crown by her mother, but the princess had found her way back to him. She always did.

There was one particular memory that Robert couldn't shake from his head as he sat there by the glass pane. It had been early spring, and Myrcella was only two or three, dressed in a gown of silver that contrasted against her molten gold tresses. It was her name day and he'd just ridden in from a hunt with a doe leashed behind him for her present. It was small and spotted and had large black eyes like pits- but the girl loved it. She walked it with her everywhere she went that day and the king felt as though the burdens of his life and the weight of the kingdom had slipped from his shoulders as she looked up at him with her emerald eyes and smiled so brightly. She didn't need to say thank you, because he knew.

But that was ages ago it seemed, and now she was nearing her fifteenth year, to be wed on the morrow to the son of his closest friend. Robb was a good lad, Robert knew, but good enough for his only daughter? Of that he couldn't be sure- in fact, he couldn't be sure if any man would be good enough for her. She was a princess, his only one. However, if she had to wed anyone, Robb Stark would be his first choice for her.

There was a slight stirring and he turned his head to see Cersei's eyelids fluttering open as she slowly lifted her head. Waves of sunshine spilled down her shoulders and she sat up, running fingers through her hair as she reached to his side for him, brows knitting together when she didn't find him. She looked around the room, eyes wide like she had just woken from a night terror, and he rose and sat on the bed across from her.

The mattress of downfeathers sank with him as he sat, and for a moment they just stared at each other. "I had a dream," she said quietly, breaking the silence.

He raised a brow, itching his beard. "What of?" He asked, some genuine curiosity slipping into his voice.

For a moment she looked as though she was about to share it, but she shook her head, huffing as though he wouldn't understand. "Nothing of importance," she muttered, waving it off and stretching her arms above her head. She smelled faintly of lavender and sleep softened her normally hard finesse. "Tomorrow is the day, then?" She turned to him and traced images on the sheets of their bed.

Robert nodded, "Aye, it is." His wife looked forlorn, saddened now at the topic. Cersei had love for Myrcella, and Tommen as well, though her heart was set on Joff. He still remembered one night when he was returning to their shared chambers and he walked in on Myrcella distraught in tears. Joffrey had killed her doe, by then a stag with large grey antlers, and tried to give said antlers as a gift to their mother. Cersei had, for the first time, reprimanded the boy with a fury and took Myrcella to their room, where she sang softly to her. Cersei was no bard, but her melody had soothed the princess thoroughly until she found sleep beside the fire. That night was the first and last night that Cersei and Robert lay together peacefully by the flames, with their daughter between them.

"Well," said the queen, pulling him from his thoughts. "I must get ready. If you would be so kind as to leave me." Her eyes swept to the door and then back to him. Robert was already dressed; donned in a pair of tall blue boots to match his sapphire cloak, a doublet of crossing black and silver covering his chest and dark breeches on his lower half.

Nodding, he rose and went to the door, looking back at her just once. She was the mother of his children, and she had loved him once. It made him feel almost broken to know he could never share her emotions. And then his thoughts drifted to the woman he had loved before the rebellion and for so long after, even after she'd left the world with the man who stole her. It wasn't long before he found his feet carrying him to the crypt of Winterfell, a single name clouding his mind.

_Lyanna._

Cold morning air hit him like a sword, cutting through his heavy dressing and slicing his bones open so he must feel its wrath. It was still early, the sun just barely filtering over the white-topped mountains in the distance, and everything in the horizon had grown golden with the rising light.

Wind blew through his beard and dragged it towards the west, where the wolfswood shook and wept fresh leaves, all copper and bronze and crimson, tickling the ground and flying up once more, twirling and dancing and singing as they clashed in the sky. The day would be a good one. Perhaps even for a hunt, he thought, but that would be worked out afterwards. After he'd seen the stone-face of_ her_.

Maybe it would bring him solace, maybe it would bring him peace -_fat chance, _he thought with a loud huff- he didn't know, but he needed to see it. To see her. With her hair pulled back and braided across her brow, the rest hidden by a cowl, all dressed up in a high-collared gown. She had never donned such solemn garb, but buried as a maid, she couldn't very well wear a thin shift of wool.

Making his way down to the crypt, Robert heaved a sigh. He hated that he depended on seeing a piece of stone to bring him back to the days when life was simple and he was only a lordling. He hated it, truly, but without that fix, without seeing her, even as a rock, he feared he would lose her and all that she ever brought to him- be it happiness or sadness or pain.

He could still remember her eyes, shimmering like silver seashells as the sun showered them above, and her dark brown curls left loose, hanging around her like a veil. She was so beautiful and young and firm, and he was sure he could have stopped anything for her- even whoring and drinking and living like a man with no responsibilities.

He supposed he should have done the same for Cersei- given everything up- but in the end she was not Lyanna. Her golden hair was not the same earthy color he adored, her eyes of emerald were a stark contrast to the pearls that he'd gone head over heels for. She had no wolfblood and wished not to wield a sword or learn the trade of archery. She was _not_ Lyanna.

The halls were lit with dim torches, and Robert pulled one from its sconce, carrying it with him as he walked into the depths of the crypt, silent as its given name. He could recall Lyanna telling him of the musky place, so dark and dank, and he looked around, knowing the truth of her words. It was all bricks and dirt ground and the air was humid but cold at the same time. It was here, just days ago, that he'd told Ned about marrying Robb and Myrcella to one another. That he wouldn't waste a trip on just one question. _Ought to marry the boy to Margaery Tyrell_, Robert thought, _he'll need a queen one day, better it be a pretty rose_. The Tyrell women were smart as whips and pretty as their namesake. Maybe she could keep Joffrey in place once they ruled. It was a strange thought, Joff ruling, and Robert heaved a sigh. He'd rather it be Myrcella who controlled the Seven Kingdoms, over her male counterpart. She was tactical and while her temper was a damnable thing, she wasn't so cruel as her brother. She would rule with an iron fist, covered with pretty flowers. She would be a good queen.

But she was his daughter, not his son.

He'd reached his destination, he realized, as he stood before Lyanna's statue. It was as he remembered it, crumbling and covered in soft moss. He reached out and touched his fingers to her cheek, her stony cold cheek, and frowned. She should be atop a hill, as he argued earlier. Not stuck in this hell of ever-winter.

The feel of a hand on his shoulder made Robert jump high, grasping his chest, where his heart lay. He turned furiously, brows rising when he saw the figure. It was slight, short, thin. The cloak was heavy and made of fine ruby velvet, hooded over the face and covering the body as a robe, the dagged sleeves of the arms and the long train, as well as the opening and hood, all lined in creamy silk and the pearls of the freshwater. Golden curls tumbled from the dark contents of the hood and suddenly he flashed with anger. What was Cersei doing down here, ruining the temple that guarded his lost love? Had she followed him? He raised a heavy hand and went to rip the hood back, but the figure was too quick and she pulled the covering back with two small, pale hands.

It was not his queen. It was his princess.

It was Myrcella.

"Father," she greeted, nodding coolly and bowing slightly. When she stood straight again, he noticed the surprise and tears in her eyes. Like she'd been crying. Like she'd not expected him. Her features, so like her mother and nothing like himself- _perhaps it's a good thing she has not my strong jaw and large hands_- were guarded and she held caution, clearly.

He tried to straighten himself out. "'Cella," he replied, clearing his through. "What... What are you doing down here?" He asked.

"I came to see Lyanna Stark." Her voice was like crystal, clear and pristine. It held no quiver, though she looked so visibly shaken. "She... came to me in a dream, I think. I wanted to see her in person."

"A dream?" Robert was brought back to Cersei, and how she'd woken so frightened. "What was it? You saw her?"

She shrugged. "I suppose so. She was everything you ever told me of. Long brown hair, braided back. She had a blue dress on, and was holding a wreath of winter roses. You said that she loved those the best. I figured it must be her, but..." The princess trailed off and looked towards the stone figurine of the woman he once loved. "She had no face."

_No face_? Robert was puzzled. "What was she doing in this bloody dream of yours?"

"She was walking along a corridor, laughing. There was another person, a woman I think, with even longer brown hair, pale skinned. They spoke of a babe." Myrcella trailed a fingertip up to Lyanna's cheek and frowned. "She was happy, until I ran to her. It was then that she turned and... All I could see was a blank sheet of skin- no eyes, no nose, no lips. No ears behind her curls. Just an oblong shaped smoothing of flesh. There were tears coming from her fingernails."

The princess wore a tiara of simple wrought gold the color of her hair, and it fit her magnificently, like it was a piece of her, body and soul, and it shined in the low torchlight, her evergreen eyes misted with the orange of the flames. Her skin was sun-glow gold and she had the faintest of sad smiles on her lips. She was such a pretty woman, beautiful, and he wondered how he ever made her. "I have been here for hours," she said after a long pause. "But I'm tired now..."

"I'll walk you," he told her, holding his arm out. But she refused it.

"I'm to be married tomorrow, and I'd rather spend today with my family and those that soon will be than use the hours sleeping. I've had enough of sleep." The princess pressed down the heavy robe and pulled the hood back over her head, but not quick so far as it had been. He could still see her face. "You may walk me to the grand hall, however, and then you may order me breakfast."

He smiled. There was her spirit and charm. "Alright," he said, and her lips curved as she accepted his hand, not the crook of his elbow. She pulled him from the endungeoned crypt so fast he couldn't even turn to give Lyanna's statue one last look.

* * *

By the time they made it out of the crypts, golden sunlight had crippled to a broken silver, breaking through the forests surrounding them to pour beams of light onto the ground. With each step they took through a beam, Myrcella's hair had turned bight white and Robert's eyes had burned. In the capitol the sunlight wasn't blocked by anything and the eyes could adjust with ease, but there in the North, with all the trees and wildlife, there were so many changing colors, all in contrast to another. His eyes pained him constantly here.

"Where are your knight and uncle?" He asked his daughter, turning them into the castle.

She looked up at him and then shrugged. "I left without waking them. They didn't need to come with me, I'm safe and sound here. This place will be my home, after all. I must learn to trust it." Myrcella steered them to the hall, where some people were already sitting- lords and few ladies from fellow northern Houses, all waiting for the wedding.

"You should have brought them. You may be marrying the heir to Winterfell, but whose to say that everyone favors the match?" He raised a brow at her and she simply took a seat, patting the table across from her, where another chair lay. Robert sat down.

"If they do not favor the match, I suspect they will tell me themselves. Or Robb- who will relay the information to me anyways. I don't believe that anyone would risk sending an assassin to kill Westeros' only princess." She gave him a light smile and Robert huffed a slight laugh, The girl was too smart. Or perhaps he was not smart enough? Who cared in the end- she was his daughter and that was all that mattered.

He called for a servant to bring he and the girl some breakfast, and a group of them rushed away to prepare a meal fit for the king and princess of the kingdoms- all seven. Myrcella leaned into her palm, hood of her cloak falling behind her neck and wisps of gold began curling around her face, framing it like a picture. "Tommen will be awake soon, I'm sure," Myrcella said, smiling at the name. She'd picked it out of the list that Cersei had- Jaimes, Tommen, or Garth- because it was the softest sounding. When the boy was but a babe she used to crawl into his crib with him and whisper his name and kiss his cheek until they fell asleep. She was a good sister to him- even to Joffrey when it was permitted and the prince was in high spirits. "Septa Hanen doesn't oft let him sleep in."

Robert nodded once, then began pouring some wine, but she put her hand over the cup, shaking her head and pulling the goblets from him, hoarding them around her so he couldn't simply grab another. "Damned girl," he muttered gruffly, pushing the wine pitcher aside and folding his arms.

"Where is mother?" She asked, looking around and seeing none of the woman who birthed her.

"Hells if I know, I'm not her nursemaid." The king cared little for what Cersei did in her free time. Not that she was given much of that- Catelyn Stark had kept her busy the whole of the weeks time they'd been here in Winterfell.

There was a clamor of boots and Robert turned to see Robb Stark walk in with his bastard brother, Jon Snow, and the ward of Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy. They looked around the room and when the tall boy's eyes caught Robert's he pursed his lips and bowed his head, eyes widening when he saw Myrcella, as if he hadn't expected her to be up so early.

Myrcella saw Robb too, and smiled kindly at him, but made no move to sit with him, as would be expected of a betrothed pair, to be married on the morrow. "You can go on with the boy if you want," Robert offered, but she shook her head, brows knitting together.

"Why in the gods names would I do that? I'll be married to him by tomorrow- I'll have my whole life to sit with him at breakfast. But you I'll see once every few years at most. I'd much rather be with you right now." She looked up at him with her twinkling green eyes and he sighed. She loved him more than she should, and he'd done naught to earn it. He didn't deserve such a love, especially after she'd caught him in the crypt of Winterfell, staring painfully at the one he loved above her mother for always.

But she seemed not to care that she'd seen it, only that they were together at that moment. He supposed he should be grateful.

An array of plates and dishes were served to them and the only thing that he waved away were the peach cakes. If the princess even sniffed the fruit she would have puffed up bigger and redder than a Lannister's pillow. She did eat the apple tarts, however, and closed her eyes in enjoyment of the delicious confection. Robert helped himself to meats of all kinds, boar and bear and elk and even stag- like that of his sigil- crowned with golden peppers.

After they'd eaten, the princess had given him a long, warm hug and pressed a kiss to his brow, promising that she would see him later. Renly and Oakheart had come to take her to some sort of dress fitting or what have they. Once he watched his daughter skip off with her most faithful companions, Robert rose as well, finished a bite of brewed stew, and made his way out of the hall. He'd had his fill of food.

The grounds were bubbling to life and before long Robert found himself amidst a very lively Winterfell.

People were bustling to life and carts were beginning to be towed around the grounds, children starting to run about. He even caught a glimpse of the youngest Stark daughter, Arya, carrying a little wooden sword with her brother, Bran, as they turned a corner and bid him quick hellos before sprinting towards the leftwing tower.

He saw the eldest Stark girl walking with a mouse-faced girl with brown hair and brown eyes. When they saw him they bowed and smiled politely, then continued on with an elder Septa who looked as though she would burst with nags for the girls.

The three boys, Robb, Jon, and Theon were all in the training yard now, each practicing a different trade; Robb shot at the trees beyond with his bow, Jon was whacking a plank of wood with his sword, and Theon threw daggers at a barrel. They joked to the lordling about being tied down and how he'd have to be called in at noon for supper by his wife- or rather, Theon joked of it- and Robb burned with anger. "If you talk about the princess like that one more time, Theon, I'll shoot _you_ instead of those trees."

Robert grinned at the boy's desire to keep the jests directed away from Myrcella. _Good man_. And then he heard a faint calling of his name. It was Eddard.

He turned and raised a brow at his oldest friend. "Ned," he greeted nodding his head once.

"Your Grace," he replied. He had aged well, still tall and strong and while he was larger than he had been as a youth, he was still in fit shape. "You're up early," he noted, as if it were such a surprise.

In truth, it should be a surprise. Robert hadn't bothered to rouse from bed earlier than late noon most days since he'd been here. "Couldn't sleep," he said. "Been up for long... Myrcella was awake too."

"Was she?" Ned looked on to where his son was loosing another arrow and a somber smile befell him- for there was no other kind when it came to Eddard Stark. "We are to share a grandchild soon," he said. "Perhaps more than one. Twins run through your wife's family."

"They do." Robert wouldn't admit it, but to see his daughter become a bride and a mother so soon would be the death of him. He _would_ admit, however, that he couldn't wait to have pretty little babies surrounding him, all with red hair and gold hair and maybe one would slip through that had his own hair of inky black and eyes like a storm. It was a small dream, but a dream he enjoyed none the less. Perhaps Ned was right and she would have two, like Joanna Lannsiter had with her first children.

They stood in silence for a long while, just watching the three boys at their practice, and it wasn't uncomfortable. There was nothing to say, but only because it had all been said. They were not men of filigree words and smiles, they were men of practicalities. More so of Eddard than Robert himself, but still.

There was faint laughter in the distance and Robert watched as Myrcella came through the courtyard on the arm of Catelyn Stark, her guard and uncle behind her, chatting away. The princess already seemed so at home here, and it hurt him in a way. Was it so easy to detach herself from he and the rest of her family? Maybe if he was his own father and Cersei was his mother, and he had a brother like Joff, he would be eager to leave as well.

"Father!" She called across the courtyard. She was still wearing her heavy red robe, hood drooping around her shoulders. All three boys turned to look at her. Robb flushed red, which made him look like a beet with his bright auburn hair, Jon raised a brow, and Theon looked like he was forcing back a whistle.

Myrcella quickened her pace, nodding to the Lady of Winterfell, and wrapped her arms around him. "I can't wait for you to see my dress. It's lovely- one of mother's from when she was a girl. And the cloak is beautiful. I shall have to keep it even after the wedding."

Catelyn Stark smiled warmly. "Princess Myrcella looks stunning, truly. I'm sure tomorrow will be a very happy day for all of us."

"We are gaining a daughter, of course it will be happy," said Ned from Robert's side, looking to Myrcella with kind grey eyes.

Robert nodded. "I suppose if you put it that way, I'm gaining a son in this. Hear that, Robb, you'll be my boy too!" He looked over to the red-head, who blushed even brighter, giving him a steel-faced nod as he made his way to them.

Myrcella grinned widely at Robb and stood beside him once he'd come over to their growing group- Renly and Arys Oakheart were still behind, chattering like old maids- and Robert noticed what a handsome couple they made. Where Robb was tall and pale and red and blue, Myrcella was small and tanned and gold and green. Odd and different, but in some way they complimented each other; like a white lily on a field of watered moss. "I daresay, Robb Stark, you'll drop your jaw when you catch sight of me," she jested lightly, taking his arm.

"Undoubtedly." The boy stuttered in her presence. Whether it was because she was a princess or because she was such a pretty little thing, Robert cared not to know. "I was... Wondering if I could show you around Winterfell?"

The princess raised a brow at him. "We've all our lives for that, Robb. Today I must be with my father," she said.

He nodded, "Of course." Robert looked to Myrcella and raised a brow of his own.

"I'll be here for a few more weeks girl, go on. No need to hang around with me all day, when I've got this one to keep me company." He bobbed his head in the direction of the keep, where Tommen had just bound out of the door, running towards them. Robert caught the boy in his arms, and the little prince giggled, squealing and reaching for Myrcella.

"Cella!" He screamed, grinning, and she grabbed him, pulling him to her hip and kissing his cheek. "Cella, Cella can I come with you?"

The boy was ten, but his sister treated him as a toddler. She sheltered him like Cersei should. "Well, what about father, sweet boy? He'll be in want of your company." Tommen looked from his sister to his father and back again, brows knit as if he were in deep thought.

"Well can't father come with us, too?" He asked.

Robert watched as Myrcella eyed Robb for a moment, and then him. "I don't see why he couldn't. I think we should let father decide."

Tommen stared at him pleadingly and Myrcella's shoulder became the resting spot for Robb's hand as they waited for Robert's decision. It was just then, with Myrcella holding her young brother on her hip and beside Robb, his hand on her shoulder, that Robert felt the reality of what Ned had said of them sharing grandchildren, and brought back the thoughts of little ones running around his feet. They were so young, but he knew they would be fine. Perhaps she was even better off here than in King's Landing with him.

"I should like to go for a short time. Don't want to be taking up all of your time together before tomorrow." Tommen slid from Cella's arms and held Robert's hand, but the king released it and instead pulled the boy up into his arms and swung him around so that the prince could ride on his shoulders as they walked, Robb and Myrcella considerably further ahead.

He hoped they would share more likeness than he and Cersei ever had in their years of marriage. He hoped they would be happy.

He hoped.


End file.
